Howling Echoes: Moon Blind
by Author-Of-Sin
Summary: -Part Two of the Howling Echoes series—If you haven't read Memento in Memoria, you should really check that out first, otherwise, this won't make a whole lot of sense.- She remembers now, but is it enough to save her from the monsters at her door? Hell, she can barely handle the men in her life, let alone the entire Commonwealth. God help them all if she's their last hope.
1. Chapter 1

Every time she kisses him, he thinks his heart will burst.

It doesn't happen often, at first.

The day their whirlwind of romance began, the only kisses beyond those first two had been peppered on his neck and hollow cheek—no more were spared for his lips, though he'd seen her eyes drift down to watch them move as he spoke, studying the curve of every word that flowed from them.

It's only been a week, and he's afraid it's all a chem-fueled dream, because it's all too good to be true.

He hasn't had the nerve to kiss her yet, to initiate it on his own, lest he wakes up.

Besides, since that first day, he's hardly had a moment with her to himself.

Even when he does have her, she's distracted.

"The Slog has more than enough copper, why don't they just send it to Sanctuary when Deidre goes on her route?" She groans quietly, nibbling the lip he wants to nibble himself, more than anything. "This is ridiculous."

Hancock rubs her arm, shaking his head at her frustration and trying to keep a lid on the amusement it causes him. "Most people just ain't as practical as you, darlin'. People like to hoard supplies; it's no shocker they aren't exactly givin' away the copper. It's a precious commodity, after all."

She snorts, arching a brow at him. "Like coffee is, according to Charlie?"

He wobbles his head a bit. "Eh, sorta. He's always a bit of a miser with his coffee, even when we have tons of the shit to spare. He's worse with tea when we find it."

Shana replies with a non-committal hum and leafs through the reports in her hands, the last of which is a hand-drawn map of the Commonwealth, marking out every Minuteman outpost and settlement she's established in her time at its head.

He whistles softly at the sight. "Holy shit. You weren't kidding about it turnin' into a big operation. How'd you get so many up and running in such a short time?"

She shrugs. "I delegated some. Mostly, Preston, Cods and I ran around doing a lot of favors for a lot of people who just joined the cause afterward."

"Mac and I did a hell of a lot of that running too, got to help out a 'crapload of people', as he'd put it." Shana sighs a little wistfully. "I'll be glad when he gets back. Doesn't feel like home without him around to annoy." A soft, smirking pout pooches her lower lip at him with her proclamation.

John officially reaches the end of his rope, not entirely caring whether it's a dream or not anymore, as he leans over to quickly capture that lip between his own, nibbling and suckling on it softly.

The tiny gasp that follows almost immediately melts into a soft rumble of approval, followed by the rest of her mouth being pressed gently, carefully to his—slow, teasing, sharp little nips to his own lips swiftly chipping away at what little sanity she leaves him with.

He threads the fingers of his right hand through the short locks just behind her ear, thumb stroking her temple in grateful worship. His fingers curl when she delves into his mouth, the sweet tip of her tongue calling his into action with its cautious prodding, and the _sound_ she makes as his fingers scrape lightly against some spot by her ear should be _outlawed,_ for anyone's ears but _his_. Another lighter, experimental scratching doesn't yield the _same_ results, but _far_ better ones.

Shana flings the reports to the floor, letting them fan out across the wood as they will, as she presses him back into his own couch and straddles him, seating her hips to his and fitting there just as perfectly as he remembers she did the first time, every little motion doing wonders to encourage his hardening cock to stiffen further. His free hand settles on her right hip, holding her there as steadily as he can while he grinds himself up into her, once, twice, his half-choked groan straining into the air between them.

The farther back she pushes him, the more at risk his hat is of being knocked right off his head and back behind the couch, but before he can raise his hand from her hip to do a thing about it, she reaches up, lifting and flinging it from his head to the other end of the couch, not once breaking contact with his lips.

He feels her smile before he hears it. "Was getting in the way," is all she says, murmured against his lips, but the husky amusement he hears in her voice tells him all he needs to know.

"Couldn't agree more," is all he gets out before she rolls her hips along his own, rendering him incapable of coherent speech. His sputtered curses are swallowed and muffled by her lips, and he thinks, with what little higher reasoning he has left from her grinding into his lap, that they belong there—his words in her, his heart in her, his soul, his... _everything_ , in her. It's only now that it hits him, howling in his skull like a beast trying to break free of its rattling bone cage: he _loves her._

The realization strikes a chord along his body's impulses, tensing muscles, causing fingers and toes to curl reflexively, again grazing his fingers along that spot she seems to love without meaning to. Her truly sinful moan is punctuated by a desperate-sounding, " _Fuck!"_ barely muffled by his lips, sealing her own words inside him. The return of the favor has the inadvertent effect of both calming and exciting him all at once, his hands abandoning their stations to wrap about her waist and warmly pull her to him, against him, wishing in this moment that he could pull _her_ inside him.

He breaks a kiss that would be impractical to keep up with her this close, instead diving for her neck, chasing that spot she loves with his lips and tongue, knowing he's found it once her fingers curving along the back of his neck and scalp curl in to leave light crescents in his pitted skin. The shuddering sigh, the slide of the muscle under the skin beneath his lips, the tremble in her spine, all confirm it for him, and he would give up every last dignity he's ever had, if only she'd let him worship at the altar of her flawless skin a moment more.

Just when he thinks she might actually let him, _just_ before any semblance of his sanity is utterly obliterated by the _need_ that flows through his entire being, there's a knock on the door.

They freeze, right as they are, his lips and teeth still gently latched onto her skin, her fingers clinging him to her eagerly, hips smack in the middle of starting to grind against his once more.

"Whatever this is, it had better be of the _utmost_ fucking importance!" she calls over toward the door, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head and dismounting him with an obviously frustrated huff. She reaches for, and plops his hat back onto his head, then steals a smoke from his pocket with a great sigh.

He lights it and holds her ash tray, because he always has, and probably always will. He takes some small delight in it, though he can't really explain _why_ adequately, even to himself. He's tried, when she asked him once. He just likes it. It's just a fact, like... like him _loving her._

A shiver races through him which he suppresses, then leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek, just as Mozzy finally speaks up from beyond the closed door.

"Got uhh... something for the General. Charon's here, and..." there's a pause, Mozzy speaking to someone in an inquisitive tone too soft for him to catch particulars, "and a Butch DeLoria? Charon says there's some kind of unfinished business with a contract."

John observes as she stiffens in recognition, eyes lighting up and a slightly sheepish grimace planting itself on her visage.

She looks to the door, already taking a breath to answer, "Let 'em in, Mozzy."

He turns to see Mozzy leading Charon and Butch through the doors, then moving to close them and taking to his secondary station, just inside the door. John gestures broadly to the opposite couch as Charon and Butch approach. "Have a seat. Any guest of the General's is a guest of mine. Let me know if you need anything and I'll see what I can do," he offers hospitably, then leans back and slings his left arm over the back of the couch.

Shana takes a last puff of her half-finished smoke, then hands it off to him to finish—a little tradition they've been founding in the past few days, one he finds he rather likes. Oddly enough, Charon seems to take note of it, but doesn't comment.

Nor does he sit his ass down, despite Butch having accepted the invitation right away. Instead, he stands next to the far couch, like a damn gargoyle, watching all of them intently.

"So," Butch begins, tugging an absolutely gorgeously engraved silver flask from his jacket's inner breast pocket, unscrewing the cap as he talks, "if I'm understandin' things right, Charon's apparently deemed you worthy of bein' the next rightful holder of his contract." Butch peers over to Shana, arching an inquisitive brow at her. "That about sum it up?"

Rather than answer immediately, she looks up to Charon, who's now moved to stand just to Butch's left side, to the rear of the couch. The huge ghoul nods, once. Shana quirks her head, as if to say, 'well, alright, if you're sure,' then turns her attention to Butch. "Seems so. If you want to know why, you'll have to ask him."

Butch shrugs, finally drawing from his flask, long and hard, before swallowing and answering, "Already did. Said you were like Lynn was, before he blew her fuckin' head off. You want his damn contract? Give me starting money for a barber shop here in town, and you got his flaky ass, for as long as you can stomach it."

"Wait a fuckin' second. Who's to say he won't do that to Shana?" John demands of Butch. He and Shana had discussed Charon's contract a few days after she woke from getting her memories back, but the actual terms of the contract she'd conveyed to him were... vague, at best.

Butch shrugs, gesturing toward Charon. "Ask _him_ , if you want to know that shit. Lynn was his real contract holder, I never really knew any specifics about all this crap. Didn't _want_ to, thank you very much. Still don't." With that out of the way, he takes another long drink from his flask.

Before John can ask anything, Charon speaks, looking down to Butch, disapproval in his tone and craggy features. "You promised you would stay sober for this, Butch."

Butch turns, anchoring his elbow on the back of the couch to aid his twisting frame. "Fuck off, Charon. I didn't kill _your_ wife. I get to be as drunk as I want, wherever I want, whenever I want, until I can't remember what you fucking did any—"

"Alright, that's _enough!_ " interjects Shana, abruptly shooting to her feet, standing taller than everyone but Charon, asserting her authority at last. "Butch, I'm sorry, but I have to stop all this, immediately. You need a dose of the truth, right now. I get that you lost Lynn, and what happened to her was fucking _tragic_ , but Charon paid you all a fucking _mercy_ when he did what he did. She was fucking _feral_ , Butch. I don't know if you knew that. She was feral when he shot her. No mind left. Nothing. There _was_ no more Lynn DeLoria when he put her down. I get that you're grieving, _believe_ me, but he doesn't deserve the treatment you're giving him. You need to accept the truth that _she_ _ordered him to end her life_."

The shocked, pained outrage in Butch's glassy stare is plain for anyone to see, as he stares at Shana with eyes wide and jaw dumbly slack. Charon stands with a stiff spine, watching her with calculation in his gaze, but no other discernible expression.

Not giving Butch, or anyone else time to respond, she steamrolls on, "As for your price on his contract? Fine, if that's what it takes to get him out from under your verbal abuse, I'll pay it. But you do _not_ get to berate or defame him any further after that contract changes hands, do I make myself _crystal_ motherfucking clear?"

Hancock relaxes back into the couch, having had his questions and concerns answered so succinctly that he doesn't really have any more. Not on that subject, at least. He looks to Butch, instead, curious what he'll say to Shana's reprimand.

Butch slowly twists back to look at Charon, taking a few moments before he asks, "Is that true? She... she w—she was a fuckin' _feral?_ "

Charon nods. "Yes."

The greaser gapes at Charon. "Why didn't you fuckin' _tell_ us? Why'd you let us think you'd murdered her, what the f... _Why?!_ Why would you _do_ that, man?"

Charon maintains eye contact with Butch, his tone even as he replies, "Because she ordered me not to tell any of you."

Butch flings a hand toward Shana in flagrant indication. "But you told _her?_ A complete stranger?"

The huge ghoul shrugs. "Lynn stipulated those I was not to tell were restricted to her inner circle. Shana is not included in that group, so her restriction did not apply."

As Butch continues to rant at Charon, Shana sits back down and turns to murmur to John, "How much do I need to give him? I want to see this done, _yesterday_."

John shrugs slightly, bringing his lips to her ear to reply, "Probably about a thousand caps would cover any business that wanted to start up in town, with fees and rent and all that jazz. You sure about all this? What if the big guy's lyin'?"

She shakes her head shortly, only replying, "He's not."

He tilts his head in lieu of a shrug, patting her knee affectionately. "If you're sure."

She only nods, then looks to Butch, who has finally finished chewing out the ghoul behind him. "A thousand caps, right?"

Butch wavers, peering at her, then the floor, then the chems lying on the table, then back to her, before he nods. "Yeah, one 'k' ought to do it. You still want him?"

Shana reaches for her backpack, resting by the table, then rifles through it. After a few moments, she produces a set of four bags, which jingle heavily with caps, tossing them on the table. She closes her pack, looks at Butch and nods at the bags. "Yes. Count them, if you like."

Butch frowns, then leans forward, sliding to the edge of the couch as he reaches out for one of the bags, hefting it into his outstretched hand, weighing it. He tilts his head and peers over at her with narrowed eyes. "Five-hundred cap bags? Shit, someone's rollin' the dough."

Both Charon and Shana snort at this, Shana speaking up to gently correct him, "'Raking in the dough', is the phrase you're reaching for, there. Good try, though."

Butch waves her off, like batting away an annoying bug. "Yeah whatever." He picks up the other three bags, weighing each one in his hand carefully, before nodding. "Yeah that's cool. Here." His right hand goes to his pip-boy, ejecting a holotape. He hands it across to her. "Check it, if you want. Have you heard it yet? Shit's fucking creepy."

She dips her head in assent. "I have, yes. Though, Charon stopped it, after the scientist began to eat his own arm."

Butch shudders quite visibly, and John can't help but agree. "Ate his _own arm?_ The fuck'd he do that for?"

Butch answers, quietly, "He went feral. Didn't survive ghoulification, like Charon did."

Shana relaxes back into the couch, hitting eject on her pip-boy's tape deck and sliding the holotape in. She fiddles with the dials for a moment, then glances up at Charon, before un-focusing and staring off into middle space.

Butch busies himself with shoving the cap bags into his own cobbled together pack, apparently not finding her behavior odd at all. Charon simply watches her, evenly. John looks between them all, frowns in confusion, and asks, "The hell's goin' on? Why's she starin' off into space like that?"

It's Charon who replies, "She is listening to the tape. The pip-boy can reroute sound to play directly into the wearer's eardrums, for solo listening."

John remains frowning, still confused. "It does that through her _skin?_ That... doesn't make a damn bit of sense, brother."

Charon taps Butch on the shoulder. "Butch, if you could demonstrate?"

Butch nods lazily, unbuckling his pip-boy, letting it disengage with a slight hiss and a grimace. When he pulls the unit away, there are several small, bright-red and obviously smarting holes in the man's arm which, oddly enough, are notably _not_ bleeding.

He flips the pip-boy over, showing the underside of it to John. "See these ports here?" He points to several ports with retracted connectors just hanging in suspension within them. "When the pip-boy turns on, it has to shoot those into your arm, to get a lock on your system. They attach to different things, dependin' on the type of sensor it's got, but," he points to the various ports seemingly randomly, "these attach to nerves, these to veins, these to tendons, bones, these to muscle. This right here is why, if someone were to try to forcibly rip a pip-boy off a live person, they'd have to take the whole fuckin' arm off with it."

John stares at the pip-boy Butch holds with great distaste. " _Shit_. Y'know, that all sounds like a very big reason to _never_ use one of those fuckin' things."

Butch snorts, a half-smile coming to his lips as he smacks his pip-boy back into place, again hissing as the connectors presumably shove themselves back into his arm. "It might sound shitty, but honestly? The benefits outweigh the shitty parts. No way in hell I would've survived this long without the V.A.T.S. to help me out. I'm shit aim without my dad's rifle."

John skews his eyebrows, yet again confused. "The fuck is a vats?"

Charon answers him, "Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System. When triggered, it shows a highlighted overlay display over targeted enemies, to focus the person wearing the pip-boy in the heat of battle, allowing them to select specific parts of the target to focus on. Head, chest, arm, leg, weapon, etcetera. It is... effective, to a point. If one is unused to combat situations, it can be of great help to them. For those used to the flow of battle, however, it is more of a hindrance than a boon."

"I don't use that, if you were wondering," comes Shana's sudden comment, though her eyes still stare off into space.

John blinks, glancing at her, then at Charon and Butch, hooking his thumb toward her. "She can still hear us?"

Charon nods. "Yes, if one concentrates, it is possible to listen to the pip-boy and the goings-on around them." He peers down at Shana with something akin to an ounce of admiration in his eyes. "I have not seen it occur often, however."

Butch snorts, shaking his head. "Fuck that noise, that's too much work."

Shana shakes her own head, wearing a slightly grim smirk as she ejects the tape from her pip-boy. "I can imagine it would be," she murmurs, then rises to a stand, looking across at Charon with a tiny smile, holding the tape in her upward-facing palm. "Charon, do you recognize this as your contract?"

He glances down at the tape, then moves around the couch, plucking the holotape from her hand and flipping it once, so the label faces down. He nods, handing it back to her. "Yes, Mistress."

She arches a brow at his address. "Is that what you personally prefer to call me, or what you were trained to do?"

Butch chuckles, interjecting, "It's what he called Lynn for years. Think he has trouble learning names."

Shana smirks at Butch. "Then he and I have something _else_ in common." She looks back to Charon. "Well?"

Charon shrugs. "It is what you are."

She tilts her head at the brute. "That doesn't answer my question."

Charon flinches slightly, just a tic of his cheek before he recovers and quickly answers, "It is a result of my training."

Shana narrows her eyes at him. Without breaking eye contact, she snaps her fingers at Butch. "You have what you need, yes? Best get to setting up that barber shop." She does look down at him to stipulate, "I'd better not find that you've drunk that startup money away, either. This is your chance to do good here." She returns her gaze to Charon, smoothly and effectively dismissing Butch. "Don't waste it, please."

"Uhh sure. Thanks?" He tugs his pack up over his shoulder as he stands. "Well, see ya later, Mayor, General... Charon."

A series of nods send him out of the room. Mozzy follows him out, returning to his watch outside the door.

Shana lowers her volume until it's almost a choked-off whisper, "Why did you flinch, just now?"

Charon rolls his shoulders, glances at John, then back to her, tilting his head toward him. "You trust him with this, Mistress?"

She nods so quickly that his chest constricts a bit, from the pride he feels at her surety. "Yes."

Charon dips his head in acquiescence. "It is a part of my training. Disobedience induces a pain response. It is automatic and unavoidable."

She scowls, looking down at the ground, seeming to ponder his answer for a few seconds, then looks back up and sighs. "So, because I specified that you didn't answer my question, the pain response flipped on?"

He shakes his head. "No, Mistress. It had already begun, it simply became stronger under your insistence."

Her grimace tugs the dimples in her cheek into stark relief. "Right. I'll try to avoid that, then. If I order you to do something contrary to your training, will it trigger the same response?"

Charon frowns at her, as if troubled. "It... would depend on the order."

Her left brow lifts curiously. "If I ordered you to call me by my name..?"

He bows his head. "I would be able to comply."

She gives him a pleased smile. "Then do so."

Charon raises his head, looking her in the eye. "Yes, Shana."

She smirks, shrugging gently. "It's a start."


	2. Chapter 2

There's something slightly devious in his new Mistress' smirk, as she looks him over now, studying him like she hadn't actually taken the opportunity to do so, before this moment. It pricks at something deep in the forgotten recesses of his memory, something he can't quite place. The feeling settles uneasily between his shoulder blades, though he doesn't truly gauge it as anything more than playful impishness, skittering about and pestering the wolf that grins at him from behind her eyes.

Something she finds in his battered features makes her chuckle, tilting her head and raking her eyes over him fully once more, before inhaling bracingly and righting her head, nodding it as she does. A hand she holds out to the side gestures to the couch with a gentle motion. "Have a seat if you like, Charon. You can relax. We're as safe as one can be in the Commonwealth, here. When we're in Goodneighbor, when we're _home_ , we can all relax. If the town needs defending, we defend it. Otherwise, we _live_. Make sense?"

He wonders why she doesn't simply frame it as an order, why she phrases it like an offer, a question. It's not the first time she's done this, but she holds his contract now—she could order him to stand down and he would do so without question, so long as she is not in danger. Why give him the option to opt out? He glances down at the couch, then back to her. "Is that an order?"

She blinks, and the Mayor she puts her trust in—the one she shares her cigarettes with, who embraces and touches her without reserve, who looks at her like she's his world—chuckles at Charon's query as if the answer is obvious. She shakes her head quietly, giving Charon a considering look. "No, it's not." She issues a sigh from the depths of her lungs and her smile is pinched with concern now. "Charon, I need you to do something for me. This tape," she lifts his contract between fore and middle finger, "is not a complete accounting of all that your contract entails, is it? The scientist covered the basics, but he left out a lot, didn't he?"

Slowly, he nods, unsure what 'favor' she is trying to get him to perform; he's only certain that he wishes to erase the concern he sees in her eyes when she looks at him now, to reassure her, any way he can. "Yes."

She dips her head in understanding, and pockets his contract with something like careful reverence, patting it gently as it settles on the bottom of the pouch. "I thought so. I would like for you to write out your entire contract for me, so I can read and fully understand all of the terms." Turning, she bends down and collects the sheafs of paper scattered across the floor haphazardly as if they'd been thrown, gathering them together in some semblance of order. She snatches a clipboard, pencil and some clean paper, facing him with a soft smile and handing them over. "In English, please."

He takes the means to bare his manufactured soul to her and simply nods, looking past the wolf behind his own eyes, now trying to gnaw its way out in rebellion against the order he cannot refuse. "As you wish."

He braces the board across his arm and begins to write immediately.

Unexpected, her feathered touch, there and gone again, startles him from his concentration only moments later.

"Charon, you can sit, if you'd like to," she offers, her voice and expression soft, kind. "You don't have to stand there and write it if you'd rather sit." Again, she gestures welcomingly toward the empty couch, and the muscles between his shoulder blades twitch.

She seems to sense his hesitation and holds her hands up placatingly as if he somehow indicated that he needed appeasing, though he's certain he's given no such signal. "It's not an order. Just an offer." She shrugs, then leaves him with a gentle smile to return to the Mayor on his couch, stealing another cigarette from his coat.

He watches with a sideways look as the Mayor lights her smoke, holds the ashtray for her—caters to her, hand and foot. He wonders if he will be ordered to do the same, in the Mayor's absence.

He glances back at the empty couch. Considers the possible effects of accepting her offered comfort, of denying it. He weighs the consequences that could come of each, and finds himself adrift, buffeted between the two by the waves of uncertainty.

Even Lynn gave him clear orders, amidst reshaping him into something closer to the human he once was. He is unused to having to make such choices, without first knowing his boundaries.

Tactics, decisions made in battle, these he understands. These are clear and delineated. There is a line: you cross or do not. Choices made to protect his employer, to ensure the safety of his contract-holder—those are more muddled at times, but still, it is always the side which _protects_ that is chosen.

The concern in her features, however, _that_... that is familiar. Lynn had often looked at him the same way. She had chosen her own path in shaping him, just as it seems his new Mistress has.

It is his function to protect his employer. She is entitled to his services in combat. He is conditioned to obey her, absolutely, within the limits of his contract.

There are no clauses for his comfort, or even hers, beyond keeping her alive, in the words he continues to write.

He remains standing.

* * *

I look on, watching the titan perform his task for me, the pencil dwarfed by his hand as he scratches it tersely across the paper. He stands rigid, straight-backed but for the slight bend at the top, where he bows his head to watch the words punched into the skin of the paper, from the graphite tattoo needle in his hand.

John seems both discomforted and amused by Charon all at once, his wary eyes watching him over the musing smirk that tugs up the corner of the mouth I very much want to kiss again.

While Charon's interruption had been... at an _inopportune_ time, it had also been long overdue. Apparently, getting Butch to remain sober for long enough to drag him from the room or the Rail to the State House had been a task of gargantuan proportions. Unsurprising in the end, given what he thought Charon had done, but still a delay of the inevitable.

This contract of Charon's... there's something that bothers me about the whole thing.

I understand that he's been conditioned, that some sort of one-of-a-kind serum and a whole lot of brainwashing and training went into creating the product of the man in front of me. But I've also seen the untamed creature beneath it all, and how much it wants to break free from its leash.

It's clear he struggles with the line in the sand—what he's allowed based on what he knows his contract says he's allowed, versus what _I say_ he's allowed. It's that struggle which prompted me to have him spell it all out for me. I need to know the exact terms I'm dealing with here.

I need to know if there's a way to free him from the chains that bind him.

Or, if not, then to find some way to give him a semblance of whatever freedom I can provide him.

It seems to me that Lynn walked that line fairly well, considering everything she'd done to provide for him. But I'd like to take it all a step further if I can. Charon will live much longer than I will. I want to improve his quality of life as much as I can, for as long as I hold his contract.

I am under no illusions—I know this contract is little better than a leash in pretty packaging, very carefully framed and topped with a perfectly symmetrical bow that shows off all of its most attractive qualities, trying to sell it as anything but the slavery it is. Going by his contract alone, he's a weapon, a tool, a means for survival—expendable, a highly skilled meat shield.

Maybe I'm trying to take on the impossible, in wanting to free him from it, or at least to give him enough slack to let him slip his noose.

The pain response was... unexpected.

I don't know _why_ I didn't expect such a thing; after all, what sort of brainwashing would it be, if there wasn't some lasting, inescapable consequence for disobedience?

I pass the last half of my cigarette to John, then cross my arms and lean into the back of the couch, watching Charon as he writes; his motions wrote, mechanical, practiced. How many times has he done this? For how many hours was the entirety of his contract drilled into his brain? How many other things were? How long did his original conditioning last?

So many questions and more forming all the time, the longer I think on it all.

I just... I want to do right by him, whatever form that takes.

Because I _know_ the beast prowling behind those faded blue eyes.

And the collar it's being forced to wear is an ill fit, in any world.

I'm going to loosen that buckle, any way I can.

* * *

He finishes his task with fair efficiency. His trainers would've marked it an abysmal performance, but they are long dead, and the world moves at a different pace, now.

He sets the pencil on the board and quietly hands his Mistress the requested document. She smiles at him and accepts it, thanking him sweetly. He gives her a short nod, then falls back to stand uneasily by the opposite couch, unsure where she prefers he stand watch.

He observes in silence as she switches positions with the Mayor, for better access to the lone lamp in the room. She stares down at his written contract for the entire time as she waits for the Mayor to slide over, hungry eyes devouring his handwriting with a ravenous appetite. By the time she actually sits, she is nearly finished with the first page, lifting it only moments later to continue to the second.

He waits, as she flips through the second page, the third, the fourth, finally landing on the fifth. When she finishes reading it all, she lets the pages fall back into place, and begins again, relentless in her apparent pursuit of full understanding and clarity.

Once she again finishes, she sets the document in the Mayor's hands and commences staring a hole in the floor, chewing on the inside of her cheek as the Mayor reads Charon's contract.

Before the Mayor finishes the second page, she looks up at Charon, her expression unreadable, the creature behind her eyes snapping its jaws at her control. She says nothing, only looking at him, eyes on his, unflinching, as though searching for something in his impassive gaze. She seems to find it.

Pointing to the empty couch, she peers up at him. "Sit down, Charon."

Finally given an actual order, he complies immediately, almost eagerly, even. He looks to her for further instructions.

Mayor Hancock finishes reading and sinks back into the couch, staring his own hole through the chem-littered table before him. "Shit," he manages, after a few seconds, tearing his eyes from the table to prop them open on the sight of her eyes, searching them for answers. "You sure this," he lifts the clipboard in indication for a second, "is _really_ somethin' you wanna take on, darlin'? It ain't gonna be no walk in the ruins, this is..." he shakes his head, gaze falling to the papers, momentarily at a loss for words.

She'd turned to the Mayor the moment he first spoke, giving him her full attention. Her voice is both firm and understanding when she asks, "You know anyone else that can help him?"

The Mayor eyes his Mistress worriedly, then shakes his head, handing her the written contract with a tenuous sigh. "No darlin', I don't. Just... be careful, please? Not everyone here's gonna understand what his deal is," he supplies, almost-pointing at Charon with a half-extended finger, dropping it before it becomes a full gesture.

She sighs and stands, slipping the papers from the board and setting it on the table, clutching the yellowed leafs in her hand as she strides over to present them to Charon. He takes them carefully from her, folding them and tucking them into a pouch on his harness, just as his Mistress speaks, "His 'deal' is that he is a member of my _pack,_ and I protect my pack, just as my pack protects me, just as we all protect _each other_." She offers him a small smile before she turns, addressing the Mayor now. "If anyone has problems understanding that concept, they're on far too many chems or too much booze to be worrying about it, anyway."

Mayor Hancock grimaces, shaking his head. "It's not that simple darlin', and you know it. Someone's gonna wise up and say somethin', at some point. It could become a problem."

His Mistress bares her teeth in a snarl, tongue curling just over the edge of her teeth as she enunciates every syllable, though her expression eases some by the end, "Then I'll _take care of it_ when it becomes a problem."

The Mayor lifts his hands in supplication. "I don't disagree with you, darlin'. I'm just tellin' ya what the people are gonna see."

She tilts her head, mien calming, evening out. "If they see anything, it'll be the good he helps me do on a daily basis. If they want to pick at that, then god help them for bein' the fools they are."

Mayor Hancock chuckles at that, nodding his assent after a moment. "I suppose I can't argue that." He reaches out as she slowly moves back toward him, grasping her hand gently in both of his, tilting his view up to hers searchingly. "I just hope you know what you're doin' with all this, 'cause I sure as hell don't." He lowers his head to press a kiss to her knuckles.

His Mistress purrs a hum of amusement into the air. "I hope so, too."

She looks over her shoulder at Charon, mouth tugging into a worried, fragile smile that ill suits her. "Keep the written contract secure for a while. There're a few others who need to read it before you destroy it. I'll keep the original safe." Something must occur to her, as she starts slightly, turning halfway toward him, though she doesn't pull her hand from the Mayor's grasp. "Unless you'd rather make the written contract your official one now, since that's the full accounting of it?"

He considers the offer. It is well within the realm of his contract's allowances, and it is one of the few measures of autonomy he's allowed, the ability to decide on this matter. In the end, the papers are no more fragile than the original holotape, and he is tired of having to write it over and over again, for each new employer who cares enough to ask after it. So, he nods, and retrieves the folded papers, holding them out as far as he can while still maintaining the seated position she ordered him to.

His Mistress chuckles, taking the papers from him and handing him the holotape—an even exchange. "You can stand up if you need to, Charon. I shouldn't have ordered you to sit like that. I'm sorry."

He frowns and remains sitting, despite the rescinding of her previous order. "You are my employer. I will obey your commands. You need not apologize."

She arches a brow at him. "I 'need apologize' if I feel the _need_ to, which I _did_. I apologize for things. Get used to it."

He dips his head in acquiescence. "As you wish. It is still unnecessary."

She smirks, jerking her chin in his direction. "Tell you what, you let me decide whether my apologies are necessary or not. In exchange, you get to decide whether you're going to sit or stand when we're all safe at home. Fair?"

"Fairness is unnecessary."

She finally lifts her hand from the Mayor's care, to cross her arms, hip gently cocked. "Fairness is _extremely_ necessary," she insists. "Do you disagree with the terms?"

He considers the question, though he still balks at her insistence of fairness. "No. The terms are acceptable, unnecessary as they may be."

His Mistress snorts in amusement, shaking her head. "You think everything's unnecessary, don't you?"

He allows a tiny smirk to twitch the corner of his mouth. "You would feel the same, after two centuries of life."

She shrugs an eyebrow as if conceding the point. "Probably true. I _technically_ am that old, but I was frozen for most of it, so I suppose it doesn't count in that sense. Why don't you like sitting, exactly? You didn't seem to have a problem with it before I got your contract."

Again, she surprises him, knocks him off-course. "...I am uncertain what you require of me, as an employee. Until I am firm on my place and role at your side—beyond what is outlined in my contract—defaulting to the standard procedure is the safest option."

Her arms unfold and she closes the space between them in two strides, seating herself beside him, turned to face him. Her tone is calm, kind, instructional. "What I require is you to watch my back, just as I watch yours. For you to watch their backs," she points at Mayor Hancock, "just as they watch yours. Anything more than that is just time and details. It'll all fall into place as it should, just give it time."

He ponders her answer, looking down at the hand she gently curls around his, then back up to her eyes, still on his. "Just another member of your pack?"

His Mistress smiles, squeezing his hand. "A very important member, I think. We'll know more, with time. But yes, you are a member of my pack. No more, no _less_."

He continues to watch her warily. "And you lead this pack, yes?"

She shrugs, still wearing a fond smile. "In a manner of speaking. But yes, I suppose, with a firm, but fair hand. When I must."

After a moment of thought, he nods. "Then I will follow you."

A somewhat sly smirk pulls at her mouth, eyes too knowing for their own benefit watching him quietly. At length, she nods. "For now." She stands and returns to the Mayor's side, motioning for him to slide back into his original spot before she sits in the one he vacates, leaving Charon to puzzle over her parting remark—one which sets the muscles between his shoulder blades to twitching, almost violently.

She is less like Lynn than he'd assumed.

He doesn't think he's made the wrong decision in granting her his contract—no, not by a long shot.

But... he _will_ be on watch—if more out of keen curiosity than actual alarm.

For now.


	3. Chapter 3

He has to keep busy.

It's a struggle because, despite the sheer number of cases that are always piling up at the office, there are none currently available which fire up his investigative curiosities quite so much as _hers_.

He _should_ be working her case. He should be right next to her, going at it from every angle, trying to pry Shaun from the Institute's grasp for his aunt.

The aunt, as it turns out, whom he knows, all too well.

The aunt who _kisse_ —

 _**No.** _

No, he can't think about that.

He thumbs the space on his still whole finger where the other Nick—the _human_ Nick—once wore a wedding band.

It's an old habit, one he's yet to weed out of his system, just like the smoking. He'll work on it, one day. Just not today.

Standing in silent wait for the woman he's tailing to exit the building, he lets the pad of his thumb—worn smooth with use, long past its expiration date—rub over the empty space on his finger.

He wonders if his ring survived on the surface.

More likely it was pilfered by scavvers, years ago. It's probably lost to time and greed, now.

A soft whimper distracts him from his musing and he aims before he even looks at its source, only to find a familiar face in his sights.

He chuckles softly, lowering his pistol immediately. "You've gotta give a fella a little more warning than that, Dogmeat. I coulda shot ya just now, and wouldn't _that_ be a pickle to explain to your new friend?"

He grimaces slightly at her mention and sighs, returning his attention to the door he's been watching for the past twenty minutes. "What are you even doin' out here? She'd have a fit if she knew you were this far from home."

Dogmeat crosses over and sits at Nick's left side, nudging his head under the old synth's hand.

Nick snorts and gently scratches the dog's head, wondering at Dogmeat's tracking him all the way out here. It doesn't make any sense, really, but he's never been one to shirk canine companionship. They'll keep each other safe, for now.

He sighs, planting himself against the wall behind him, and waits,

* * *

"You're gonna miss."

I crane my neck to look back at the speaker with a doubtful expression. "Why do you think that, exactly?"

Mac pops his finger into his mouth, sucking on it to wet it, then holds it up, squinting one eye as he stares vacantly up at the sky for a few seconds. He dips his head and lowers his finger, looking back down to me. "Got a decent east wind, and you're not compensating."

Charon, standing behind my prone form, corrects, "She is."

Mac frowns, turning to Charon. "No, she's not." He crosses his arms. "Who's teachin' her here, anyway? Thought I was s'posed to teach her sniping."

"Your methods are inefficient," Charon replies, "the target will die of old age before she learns to hit it, under your tutelage."

"What?! No, they won't, I'm not—"

"Mac! Don't argue with the two-hundred-year-old soldier." I turn, catching sight of Charon behind me. "Charon, go easy on Mac. He's self-taught, his methods are a little..." I wobble my head indecisively, before concluding, "wonky. But they work."

They both start in on _me_ , now. " _'Wonky'?!_ How _dare_ you?" "That is an understatement. He's—" _Blah, blah, blah._ I sigh, doing my best to tune them out. Turning, I take aim, compensate as best I can for the wind I feel on my face, and squeeze the trigger. I just catch the resulting splatter of blood and gray bits against the wall behind the target, before I lower Mac's rifle, clearing the chamber and looking back at my two—now silent—trainers.

Mac's peering through his binoculars, lips pressed into an impressed line.

Charon nods. "An adequate shot." I've learned the hard way that this is high praise, coming from him.

Mac dips his head in agreement, lowering the 'nocs. "Yeah, not bad at all. A little off-center, but still solid."

I shrug and stand, handing him his rifle. "Wasn't trying to be perfect. Just wanted a kill shot. She's dead. Mission accomplished."

It's just as Mac's taken his gun and slung the strap over his shoulder than I look beyond him to spot Dogmeat... dragging something? Or no... he's _tugging_ it.

Like he tugs an enemy to the ground.

My 10mm is in my hand within seconds, Charon's shotgun shouldered almost as quickly, Mac's rifle just a moment behind as I duck low and make my way around some rubble for a better shot. About halfway there, I abandon the attempt—abandon cover—and sprint directly for the metal arm garbed in a ratty tan sleeve that Dogmeat is currently trying to pull out of a side alley; which I'm desperately hoping is still _attached_ to a _living_ Detective, and that I'm not just being brought a _part_ of him.

I've nearly reached my toothy fuzzball when—to my great relief—I hear Nick exclaim, "Damn it, Dogmeat, let go! What'd I ever do to you?"

Dogmeat ignores him, glancing at me instead, just out of view from Nick's perspective, blocked by the blind corner of the alley.

I signal to Mac and Charon to stand down and go on watch, then holster my gun, cross my arms, and lean my shoulder against the wall.

I wait until at least Mac is out of immediate earshot, before I harangue, "Oh, I don't know, Nick. Could be he's wondering when you're coming _home_ , just like the _rest_ of us."

Nick stops resisting a few seconds after he hears me, and lets Dogmeat pull him around the corner, coming near face-to-face with me before Dogmeat drops his sleeve.

I arch a brow at him and continue, "It's only been what, _three_ weeks now?"

I inspect him as he stands there, wavering in uncertainty, his heating element eyes conveying surprisingly well how very _unprepared_ he is to be here right now. Despite his agitation, he looks good—for a sixty-year-old, beat to hell synth gumshoe.

His good hand goes back to rub his neck, a nervous gesture I haven't seen from synth-him before. He peers off to the side, then down to my boots, glances up to my eyes, then somewhere over by my left shoulder. A sigh gusts from him and he finally looks at me properly and lets his hand fall to his side. "Shana."

The way he says it, it's like it's a question—like he's asking if he's even allowed to come back, if he'd be welcomed or not. His shoulders are slumped, brows arched into defeated worry, and I've never seen his synth self look more like the human I remember than he does right now.

It's that thought which has me unfurling my arms from each other, only to wrap them around him—pinning his arms to his side—resting my chin on his right shoulder. "I oughta _shoot_ you for makin' me worry this much."

He's stiff for a long second, but eventually, his forearms bend up from his sides and wrap awkwardly around my waist. "Not too late to change your mind."

I snort, shaking my noggin shortly. "Nah, not after all the work I've been doing to find you replacement parts since you left."

His hands gently grasp my waist, nudging me back, and I drape my arms over his shoulders, linking my fingers behind his neck as I lean back to look at him. He blinks at me for a few seconds, then sputters, "R-replacement parts? Did Amari—"

"Yep-uh," I interrupt, "But even if she hadn't, I would've asked her about it. Anyway, the parts I've brought back she's already got fixed up and waiting to fit on ya, so, y'know, whenever you're ready to stop torturing us both, you're welcome to come home and get some new skin."

He's clearly been wanting to object during my entire diatribe, but he frowns especially hard at one thing. " _'Torturing'?_ How am I torturing you? Or myself, for that matter?"

I lift a single brow, giving him an 'are you shitting me' look. "Nick, you're picking cases from the lowest dregs of your current backlog." I lean in and lower my volume. "And considering how much your hands are kneading my waist right now, I don't think I need to elaborate on the other half of that equation."

His hands still, and I'm fairly certain it's only the damning look I'm giving him that keeps him from snatching them back to his sides in embarrassment. His eyes flutter closed as a sigh from his nose brushes a soft breeze across my suit's front. "I'm sorry," he all but whispers, "I'm... I'm sorry." He takes another breath as if he's going to say more, only to sigh it out, a false start. He opens his eyes, finds mine, and tries again. "I'm sorry that I left like that. There's just... there're _so_ many things that I just can't... I can't find the words for most of them, and there's still so much left undone, and I don't know where to start—"

I lift my hands up to cradle his face. "Nick, stop. It's alright, you're not alone anymore. Let me help you. Whatever it is you need to be done, let me help you do it. Whatever words you need to find, let me get the thesaurus out and we'll find 'em, okay? Whatever you need help with, _I'm here_. I'll help you with _anything_ you need if you'll just let me. We're _partners_ , remember? That's what partners do."

He frowns slightly at that last part. "You mean you took Ellie's offer seriously? I didn't think you'd want to, especially not now, not after... well, everything."

I chuckle, nodding softly, threading my fingers back together behind his neck. "Of course. Who do you think told me about the cases you've been taking? You forget John knows the Agency's frequency, too?"

He seems mildly alarmed, now. "Is that how you knew to come out here?"

I shake my head. "Nah, I wasn't tailin' ya or anything. Mac offered to teach me sniping and Charon... well. He's Charon, so he came along, naturally." I snicker, adding, "I'm pretty sure if _anyone_ was tailing you, it was Dogmeat, by the looks of things."

Nick shrugs his head gently, nodding. "True enough. I was wondering what he was doing so far out from Goodneighbor, but I figured something had to be up, when he started pullin' me along after the target I was tracking got shot... I'm assuming by you, now. Just figured he was tryin' to protect me somehow, but it looks like he had other ideas." He tilts his head, glancing about our surroundings before re-focusing on me. "So uh, that Charon fella, you ah... you're his... employer, now?"

I dip my head gently. "That I am. It's been a... bit of a bumpy road, getting him settled in, but he's getting there."

He glances off to the side, nodding at something. "That why he's standin' over there, starin' me down like he's ready to shoot me?"

I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, there stands Charon, my ever-present guardian. I smirk at him, then turn back to Nick and shrug, unperturbed. "That's just his face, Nicky. If he was gonna shoot you, he'd've done it already."

"Hate to break it to ya, doll, but that's not very reassuring," he murmurs.

I chuckle and turn my head to peek back at Charon. "Charon, are you going to shoot Nicky?"

Charon sighs. "I had no _plans_ to do so, no."

I nod my approval. "Good. Don't form any. I _like_ him."

Charon rolls his eyes. "I _know_ , Shana."

I stick my tongue out at him, then grin and turn back to Nick, tongue well tucked away. "There, see? All good. No death threats from Charon today. Happy?"

He quirks a brow at my word choice. "Relatively."

I smirk inquisitively. "And what, pray tell, would turn that 'relatively' into a 'positively'?"

He heaves a deep sigh and tilts his head as he looks the scant two inches down at me. "Oh, putting the finishing touches on this case, then..." he nods, softly, as if he's thinking something over. "Then I suppose it would be following you back to Goodneighbor and takin' another crack at your case. I know you still want to find Shaun, even if it might be for different reasons, now."

I arch a surprised brow at him. "That's all it would take to make you _positively_ _happy_? My, Nick, your tastes are even simpler than they used to be."

He purses his lips. "Getting on with my partner's main case is what would make me happy, yes. Not to mention there're some other things we need to discuss, in private."

I sober at that, nodding in assent. "Of course, sure. My apartment's partly set up now, we could talk there, once we get back. I've... got my own topics to add to that discussion, actually." I breathe my own heavy sigh, letting my hands separate and slide down to his chest, fussing with his coat and tie, just to give my hands something to do.

He lifts his metal hand from my waist, resting it over my fidgeting hands, stilling them.

I look up, letting a tiny smile reply to the one he greets me with. "I missed you," I offer, honestly.

He folds me in his arms, pressing me gently against his firm, warm frame, tucking my head under his chin. "I missed you too, doll. I missed you too."


	4. Chapter 4

"John."

" _John._ "

He turns, lowering his hand and looks at his daughter through the open balcony door. "What?"

Fahr rolls her eyes, snorting as she gives him a deadpan glare. "You fuckin' love her, don't you?"

He's taken aback a bit by the—all _too_ accurate—observation, but slowly nods his assent. "Yeah, yeah I do." He narrows his eyes. "Why?"

Fahr sighs, jaw tightening, her jaw muscles bunching, showing the strain she puts on them, then releases, slowly. "Can't _believe_ I'm sayin' this, but... she's not the type to treat that lightly, so give her some credit and stop worryin' so much n' stalkin' her, yeah? She'll work things out with Nicky. Shit, if she can keep _Charon_ handled as well as she does, Nicky should be a walk in the park."

He frowns at her. "Whaddya mean? Charon's _contracted_ to her, you've read the shit."

She quirks a skeptical brow at him, walking over and standing toe-to-toe with her father, looking him right in the eyes. "Have you ever _looked_ him in the _eye_ , John? There's a fuckload more to that'n than his damn contract, mark my words. He treats her with a hell of a lot more respect than his contract calls for, and you know it. She's got him _handled_ , John. He's like _her_ , but she's got him handled. What's that tell ya?"

He scoffs, a half smirk lighting his eyes and tugging a corner of his mouth up. "That he's pussy-whipped by the contract?"

Fahr shakes her head. "No. You're missin' the point, John." She half-growls, lifting his mentats tin from his frock and nabbing five from it, jamming three between his lips and two between her own before she puts the tin back in his pocket. "Chew," she orders, starting to chew her own.

He sighs, complying, unsure what the point is, but willing to reach it if it'll mean Fahr's happy and backs off from whatever this rant's about sometime soon. He swallows, shows her proof of his empty mouth, then closes it and tilts his head, waiting.

She swallows her own dose, waiting a few seconds for it to kick in and shuddering once it does, before beginning, "He's got a will as strong as _hers_ , John. Could be even stronger. He ain't _entirely_ followin' her outta some obligation from that damn contract now, though that's probably how it started. He's followin' her because he thinks she's somethin' _worth_ followin'."

She points to the balcony John had been watching for the past half hour—Shana's balcony. "You watchin' her out here while she deals with Nicky sends a lot of messages to a lot of people, an' most of 'em _ain't_ good. You wanna prove you love her ass and that you trust her, get your ass back in the House an' _sit down._ "

He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "How the hell is my worryin' after her sendin' a bad message? And I ain't stalkin' _shit_ , Fahr," he pins on, belatedly.

Fahr groans, smacking her hand to her brow and dragging it down her face in obvious frustration. "You're sendin' the message that you don't _trust_ her to handle her shit. You're also helpin' paint an even bigger target on her back than usual, 'cause now _everyone_ in this town knows how to _hurt_ you. Y'should _know_ better'n this, John." She shakes her head in clear disappointment and turns, walking back inside without another word.

Stunned speechless, he mutely follows her all the way across the house, only to stop before he hits the couch, sinking onto the ottoman instead. "Shit," he finally mutters, staring ahead blankly.

"Yeah, you got that right—'shit'." She steps up behind him, resting her right hand on his slumped shoulder, giving it an encouraging push. "Move your ass to the couch and smoke a joint before anyone sees ya sittin' on the foot pad, c'mon."

He slowly shakes his head, still staring ahead as he lifts his hand to Fahr's on his shoulder, curling his fingers under her palm. He rips his eyes away from the middle space that tries to devour his sense and turns his head as he pulls her hand up, pressing his ruined lips to her palm, then laying that palm on his cheek. "Dunno what I'd do without ya, Fahr. Thanks for..." he makes a vague motion with his free hand, "Pullin' me outta makin' a stupid."

He hears a sigh, just before her other arm drapes over his shoulder, and a soft pressure pushes the crown of his hat against the top of his head; her lips, then her cheek, resting on it. "It's what I'm here for, dad," she murmurs, lingering for a few seconds in the vulnerability he caused her, before she pats his chest and straightens, slipping her hand from his and erecting her walls back into place. "C'mon, move. You don't move soon, I'm loosin' fifty caps. Get your ass up."

He chuckles, shaking his head and bracing his hands on his knees as he stands, then turns and takes one step, flopping back down onto his couch. "You rollin' the joint, or am I?"

She shrugs, planting her ass on the tan couch and reaching for the box with the supplies in it. "I'll get it. You always roll it too tight."

He scoffs. "No way in hell, you roll it too _loose_. I keep tryin' to show ya, but you never wanna learn—"

"That's 'cause I can't keep it lit when it's rolled that tight, John," she reprimands, "It's a waste of damn lighter fluid."

He sighs, letting his head fall back onto the couch back, shaking his noggin in amusement. "You don't draw on it hard enough, sweetheart."

"Not my fault you're so used to suckin' basketballs through garden hoses, John," she returns smoothly, and when he looks down at her with a surprised smile forming on his lips, her smile matches his in mischievousness.

He laughs, resting his head back again, still chuckling. "Ahh shit, well, when you're right, you're right."

"Damn right I'm right. I've seen you doin' it," she counters, arching a brow at him as if challenging him to deny it.

He frowns at her, slightly affronted at the implied accusation that he'd _willingly_ let her catch him like that. "When? Who?"

She shrugs, filling the delicate little paper between her fingers with sticky, skunky green bits of bud trim, arranging them carefully in a gently layered pattern that only makes any real sense to Fahr. "Wouldn't be the first time, but the most recent was... hmm." She squints in thought as she finishes filling the paper and begins carefully rolling it, her calloused fingers making quick work of the affair. Wetting the paper's end between her lips, she finishes the roll snugly, leaving behind a perfect, if slightly damp spliff. "Mozzy, I think? Or was it Berk? Shit, I can't remember. Was about three, four months ago? Before miss popsicle first limped into town, anyway."

That little title garners a disapproving look. "'Miss popsicle'? She has a name and her own title, Fahr."

Fahrenheit shrugs once more, seeming entirely unconcerned as she passes the joint over. "Yeah, so? She's not _my_ girl, John. She's still a rook in my eyes until she proves otherwise. Important, but not enough to worry too much about sacrificing."

John takes the smoke from her, glaring at her now. "Yeah, well she's _my_ _**queen**_." He points to himself vehemently, then at Fahr. "So don't go trynna sacrifice her, unless you wanna piss the king off somethin' fierce."

She barely lifts a single, unimpressed brow at him. "We'll see how you feel in a year, John."

He frowns, even as he lights the spliff. "What's that supposed ta mean?"

She shakes her head, putting the supplies away and reaching for the joint when he hands it to her. "It means you get bored easily, John."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I don't think so. I don't see myself getting bored of _her,_ ever _._ "

She shrugs her head, drawing a thick cloud of smoke from the joint and holding the cloud in her lungs, before handing the smoke back across. "She won't have that vault-suit-worthy body forever."

He gapes at her, finally, actually offended. "You _really_ think that's all I care about? Shit, Fahr, it's not like _I'm_ anything to write home about, to begin with. You think I couldn't love her when she's old and gray, when I've got a face like _this?_ " he doffs his hat, pointing the lit end of the now half-smoked joint at his wholly bared, ravaged features.

"Take a good long fuckin' look at your old man, Fahr. I ain't exactly winnin' any beauty contests here. Somehow, she _chose_ me. She even _let me love her_. She lets me _hold_ her and give her all the affection I've ever wanted to give a woman, and she doesn't _care_ how I look. You think for one fuckin' second that I could throw her away, just because she gets a little frumpy or gray? I'm a _ghoul_ , for chrissakes!"

He shakes his head, hands the spliff back and sighs. "Get your _shit_ straight, kid. God, you know I love ya, but you got a lot to learn about the heart, yet. I did a shit job on that, so I'll own to that, but you can start learnin' right the fuck now. The shit you're talkin' about? The hit it and quit it attitude? That's _lust_. That ain't no fuckin' love. Not real love, anyhow. Wish I'd known the difference when you were younger, so I coulda taught you right, but it is what it is."

She narrows her eyes at him, over the glow of the cigarette cherry stoking between her lips. She takes her hit and hands it back to him. "You knew what it was, John. You just hadn't felt it yourself. Mom loved you. You just didn't want to see it, 'cause you didn't love her back."

He huffs impatience at her, then draws the biting smoke into his lungs and passes it over. "We really gonna get into that right now? We've gone over this before, Fahr. Not sure what you expect to get out of dredgin' up old ghosts. I ain't proud of how I did your mom, but she knew what she was gettin' into with me. She knew I wasn't ready to settle down like that. I told her, but she never would listen—every bit as stubborn as her daughter."

Fahr snorts, smoke puffing out with it, handing the spliff off again. "Shit yeah, she was. Ahh, who knows? Maybe you do stick with this one, maybe it _is_ real love, I don't know. Definitely seems more serious than the others, I'll give it that. But this mixin things up with _Nicky_ , I mean... ain't that gonna make this shit just... fifty times _more_ complicated? I mean shit, neither of ya are exactly simple creatures to begin with. Addin' all Nicky's baggage on top of it seems... fuckin' stupid, s'what it seems."

He shakes his head and finishes off what remains of the joint, extinguishing and chewing the remainder for a bit. "Nicky was already in the picture before she really let me into it. It's... complicated. I'm the newbie here." He waves his hand through a cloud of smoke, gesturing widely. "It's all a whole lot to do with her memories bein outta whack, and pieces of what she could remember, and..." He sighs, swallowing and relaxing back into the couch with a groan. "I dunno, Fahr, can't we just chill for a bit? Shit's too complicated and I'm too stoned."

"Yeah," comes her fairly spaced out response, "s'cool. Wanna hear it later, though."

He flips her a thumb's up, utterly unsure if she actually sees it or not, and loses himself in the dust motes floating through the light shafts as they beam their fingers through the rafters.


	5. Chapter 5

I'd let him talk, first.

And oh, _did he_.

Told me all about what it was like to wake up as this _thing_ the Institute had made him, about the life-altering adjustments he'd had to make over time, about the prejudice and hate that's been leveled at him, despite his general acceptance in society, such as it is.

Told me about fucking _Eddie Winter._

Oh, the horrific irony of that bastard becoming probably the first _ghoul_ , of all things.

 _Nobody_ deserved immortality less than he.

Of _course_ , I immediately agreed to take the fucker down. Anything it took. I'd bring everyone in on this if I had to. Told Nicky so, too.

He'd just shaken his head. "No, doll. I'd rather keep this quiet. We're the only two who remember all this... who remember Jenny. If we end up having to bring more in, so be it, but I'd rather try to get the creep just between the two of us."

I'd acquiesced after some reconsideration.

The rest... well, the rest would have to come after.

After Winters' head was already rolling.

* * *

"So, ya got somethin' for me? Maybe a pocket full of tapes belonging to an old ghoul?"

"Finally got 'em all," I nod, handing over the stack with a sigh of relief, beyond glad this squirrel hunt is over. "Here."

"No foolin?" He asks, sounding a bit surprised and impressed as he accepts the tapes, peering down at the top one as he sets them all on the desk I've all but given him in my apartment. "Well, that's some real solid detective work." He picks up a few at random, one or two nearly falling apart at the seams, even as he examines them. "Eh, they're older than dirt, but they've got Eddie's paw prints all over 'em. These are the real deal. And I'll bet ya anything they've still got the code pieces in 'em! Lemme just run 'em through the ol' processor here..." He shoves the first in the series into a portable holotape drive, hooking the data transfer cable into the back of his head. A soft whirring sounds out, clicking like an old computer terminal running through its paces, a hard disk seating itself. He ejects the tape, sets the next in, then the next, and the next. A few minutes pass, only interrupted by the sounds of the tape deck and his processors working overtime. "Got it! One, nine, five... three, seven, two, eight... four, zero, six."

His eyes zero in on mine with a vicious sort of eagerness. "That old thug's holed up in Andrew Station." His lip curls, teeth barring in a snarl as he growls out, "Now, let's go bring down Eddie Winter."

* * *

It's... _done_.

It was a hell of a fight, getting down to the prick's makeshift vault room, but holy _hell_ did it feel satisfying to watch Nick take him down.

 _Finally_ , justice for our little guardian angel, Jenny Lands.

I follow him up and out, squinting at the faded light of the gray day up top, trodding over to where he stops and kneels down.

"This is it." He almost-points at a place on the busted asphalt before him. "In this spot, two hundred years ago, one of Eddie's boys gunned down my... _Nick's_ fiance. Now Eddie's as dead as Jenny and Nick. And I... I'm at a loss." He frowns, sucks in a deep breath and stands, facing me. "All I know is... without you, Eddie'd still be at large."

I frown with a bit of concern at the way he refers to himself but keep up a soft smile in support of him. "Taking down Winters... it's a big deal, I know. Are you... alright?"

He looks down, to the side, searching. "I dunno. It's a lot to take in." He meets my gaze, though it really seems like he's looking _through,_ not at me. "Winter was it—the only reminder left of the original Nick Valentine. The last proof, outside of some long-lost Institute archive, that I was ever more than just a mechanical copy of some cop from a by-gone era." He finally breaks the thousand-yard-stare he'd been giving my eyes and focuses on me, properly, expression pinched. "I'm not sure how I feel."

I try to force a smile past the uncertainty I feel, though I'm not sure how successful it is. "You're not just a copy, Nicky. I never would've recognized you, if you were. I think you're bein a little harsh on yourself, there."

He shakes his head, giving me a smile that's as full of regret as it is dreaded resignation. "Ah, I wish it was that easy. But it's not."

He picks at his hand for a moment, then squares his jaw and looks at me head-on. "Because I _was_ Nick Valentine. I had his memories. His fears. All that poor bastard's hope. I remember getting the call to head to some lab in Cambridge to get that neurotrans-whatever. And the next thing I know, I'm in a trash heap, my family, my home, you, my entire life, gone. Then I discover, all those things, _they weren't even mine_. Everything I ever was belonged to Nick."

I blink, watching him agonize over it all, just now starting to realize all the shit that's been plaguing him in the background, everything he's been holding in all this time, all these years, with nobody around to understand.

He frowns, jaw ticked to the side in thought, shoulders rising and falling with a sigh. "I'd hoped with Winter gone, the last hint of that old world snuffed out, I could finally be free." He shakes his head. "But being out here with you, what I finally realized after all this time was that taking down Winter, it wasn't about Nick or Jenny or even you or me. It was about _justice_ , about doing what's _right_. And that act of goodness, that's _ours_. All the good we've done? That's ours and _ours alone_. And even if that's the _only thing_ in this world I can ever claim as _mine_ , not Nick's, not the Institute's, but _mine_ , then I can die happy."

A smile starts to slide onto his face, brightening with every second that passes. "And none of it would have ever happened if it weren't for you." He ducks his head a bit bashfully. "I'm not sure I'll ever be able to thank you for that."

I shake my head, offering the best smile I can muster, in return, resting a hand on his shoulder in comfort and solidarity. "You don't have to, Nicky. We're _partners_ , that's what partners do."

He lets off a soft chuckle, still keeping his head lowered, though he lifts it enough to look me in the eye, past the brim of his beat up hat. "You just can't stop being noble, can you?"

My brows arch in moderate surprise, my smile gaining a more genuine quality. "'Noble'? It's just the truth, Nicky. If anyone here is noble, it's _you_. You sought out justice for our little guardian angel, when anyone else would've just let Winter rot in there, forever. You put an end to an evil that plagued us both. Like you said, that's _yours_. And it was noble as anything."

My smile is a bit tighter but still genuine, as I continue, "The only question left now is, was there anything else you needed to do, anything else left over from..." I swallow the lump in my throat that threatens to undo me, "from the Nick I knew?"

He frowns, head cocking as I finish my query. "'The Nick you'... Shana, you _still_ know... ah. I suppose I brought that one on myself, didn't I?" He grimaces, hand reaching up to rest on his neck, rubbing his data ports like a nervous tic for a few seconds, before straightening, hand falling to his side. "Look, Shana, I'm still the same... person. I'm still Nick. It's just... now, I can at least _try_ to pretend I'm my own man... _synth_ , whatever."

He takes a step closer, reaching up to gently lift my hand from his shoulder, gingerly holding it in both his hands. "I had to do this, for all of us, for me, you, Nick, Jenny. So there was closure for us. So we can make our lives _ours_ , now. So we can put old ghosts to rest, once and for all."

I squeeze his hand gently, offering him the best smile I can muster. "I'm glad you did, Nicky. It's good. Closure's good."

He lifts the hand atop mine—his right hand—up, eyes tracking it as he slowly, ever so attentively presses the flat of one warm metal finger against the worry creased into my brow, smoothing it out with the greatest of care. Just as deliberately as he'd raised it, he lowers his hand back to mine, his eyes meeting mine, a soft smile pulling onto his lips. He hesitates for a few seconds, then finally admits, "...Been wanting to do that, for a while now. You worry so much about _so much_ , I just... want to help, shoulder some of that weight on your shoulders, you know? After all, what kind of partner would I be, if I didn't return the favor, after you've helped lift my burden from me?"

I can feel the heat on my cheeks, eyes widening as I swallow, twice, suck in a quick breath, and push out the words before I can second-guess myself, "Is that... what w-we are? j-just p-partners?" _Christ. Real smooth. Well, to hell with it, it's out there, now._

He stares down at me, a mere nine inches away, with something between confusion and the barest hint of incredulous hope. "Is... that all you want? 'Cause I'll be honest, doll, if it is, you're sendin' some crazily mixed signals here that I don't know what to do with."

I snort a single, somewhat hysterical laugh, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, only now realizing that I'm trembling in my boots and squeezing his had just a touch too hard. I open my eyes and try to steady myself, fail miserably, and push on. "N-no, Nick, that's..." I half shake my head, "that's not all I want. I want what I'm... not even sure I have the r-right to ask for, but I have to because it's eating me up and I can't _stop_ it anymore." I bring my free hand up, resting it on his cheek. "It's you. It's always _been_ you. Always."

His eyes flick down to my lips, then back up, and my breath catches, anticipation climbing the walls of my mind and pushing most rational thought out of the way on its way up. He frowns slightly. "Are... are you _sure_ that's what you want, doll? I know this mug ain't exactly what you'd call pristine—"

"Nick," I interject, "I don't care about that. Trust me, I don't. Besides, I told you, new skin, remember?" I smirk a bit cheekily, hoping he takes the hint.

He quirks a brow at that, drawling, "Well are you sure you wouldn't rather wait until I get the new—"

"Nicky, I swear to god, if you don't—"

And _this_ , ladies and gents, is the moment he _finally_ dives in and kisses the fool out of me.

His left hand cradles my head and neck, right drawing around my waist and pulling me snug to him; tongue teasing my lips apart and diving for mine, the texture of it just a touch different than human, but still every bit as enjoyable.

My own hands slide up his chest and curve around his neck, my left mirroring his left on the back of his head, the right mostly hanging on for dear life as he deepens the kiss, delving and bending me back in his ardor, chasing my lips with every ounce of this _passion_ I never knew was hiding inside the shy, rough-and-tumble bookworm of a detective that was Nick Valentine.

Maybe this really is a new leaf for him. Maybe he's letting himself just... _be_.

All I'm really sure of is one thing:

I've never, _ever_ been happier to be interrupted.


	6. Chapter 6

"Mmh, I dunno about you, but I need food and a stiff drink from the Rail before we get into anything." I press my cheek into the—surprisingly soft—shoulder of Nicky's coat, my fingers curling gently around the crook of his elbow as we waltz on into town on what feels a good bit like cloud nine.

"Uhuh, and those Gob and Nova characters you keep goin' on about have nothing to do with it all, do they?" He arches a thin brow at me, a knowing look in his eye.

I grin up at him, unabashedly. "Ah, you know me all too well, Detective. I do want to see how they're settling in down there. I bullied Charlie into giving them the jobs, after all."

He snorts, shaking his fedora'd pate and eying the alley ahead—or more likely, the truly humongous ghoul guarding it—with a wry smile. "How you managed to 'bully' that particular character into anything, I'd very much like to know. But you do have a bit of a way with machines, I must admit."

I chuckle, ribbing him softly, though I'm absolutely certain I do more damage to my elbow than to him in the process. "It's a skill I'll take to my grave." I note Charon peeling himself off of the wall below the Kill Or Be Killed sign and toss a smile at him as he heads our way.

He dips his head just slightly in greeting. "Shana. He's high, but well. The mission was a success?"

I give him my customary up-nod in return. "Charon. Thank you for looking after him. Yes, it went quite well, I'd say. Better than planned, even." I toss a devious smirk to Nick, before training my eyes on Charon and continuing, "If you'd tell him to sober up and meet us at the Rail, I'd be grateful. Please do make sure he's sober first, before he comes down. I want this to go as smoothly as possible." I pause, waffling for a moment before I allow, "Mentats are alright. He knows what I can stand."

He dips his head. "As you wish. Shall I join you after?"

I consider, lips pursing and tugging to one side as I weigh the options. "If you do, be discrete about it. If not, just enjoy your evening. I doubt we'll actually need anything." I grimace a bit. "I hope."

He graces me with his best deadpan glare, and though most never seem to notice the minute tics that constitute his facial expressions, they're as blatant as his missing skin to me. He folds his arms over his chest, just staring at me until I give in—knowing damn well I will.

I smirk, shrugging. "You know how it is."

"Not in this case," he grumbles.

I snort, wobbling my head with a shrugging nod. "Fair enough. Use your own discretion, then. I leave it to you."

He ponders for a moment, then bobs his ragged dome. "I will join you."

I tip my crown in assent, smirking. "As you wish."

He gives me a decidedly unimpressed look, which hints at a smirk before he turns and enters the Old State House in search of John.

"Well," Nick declares, "that was... something. Is he always this cryptic?"

I curve a curious brow at him. " _'Cryptic'?_ You thought that was cryptic?" I pinch my features in frank concern, drawing a deep breath before I clear them in resolution. "Sounds like we need to get you used to Charon. He's about as cryptic as a ham sandwich, Nicky. Just gotta learn his tells, that's all." I give his arm a light tug, tipping my noggin toward the end of the alley. "C'mon, my tummy's a-rumblin'."

He huffs a slightly disbelieving laugh, shaking his head and walking on, tacitly allowing himself to be led to the Rail. "I don't know what 'tells' you think he has, Shana. His face didn't change for that entire encounter. There was that time he crossed his arms I suppose, but I'm pretty sure that was designed to make him even more off-putting than usual."

I sigh, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and chuckling as we round the corner. I toss a nod and a smile to Berk the ass-loving ghoul, which he returns. "I'm surprised at you, Detective. You're usually more observant than this. Don't worry, we'll sit and make a study of Charon's widely varying emotional ranges, soon enough."

He snorts an incredulous little laugh as he holds the door for me. "Are you sure we're talking about the same person?"

I grin back at him. "Sure I'm sure! About what, seven foot and built like a brick house? Red hair, missing more skin than usual, uses a mean-looking, every bit as massive as he is combat shotgun, that's so heavily modified it's amazing it actually takes regular ammo anymore? Name's the same as the ferryman on the River Styx?" I nod assuredly. "Yeah, pretty sure we're talking about the same guy."

Nick smirks at me, _almost_ rolling his eyes. "Wise-ass." He nods at Ham. "Heya Ham, any trouble tonight?"

I take Nick's elbow again just as Ham answers, "Not until now," his eyes locked right on mine.

Nicky frowns, looking to me for clarification, then back at Ham. "What are you tryin' to say, Ham? I've never heard of her makin' trouble here, why would she start now?"

I give a subtle shake of my head as Nick looks back to me again. "Ham doesn't like me. Hasn't liked me since I apparently 'abducted' John from Goodneighbor, even though he hardly ever really leaves it, and I'm actually a _resident_ here. Seems to think I'm a curse on his existence, though I can't quite fathom why. There _was_ that time I snipped at him about the accusations he leveled at me, but I don't think I was entirely unreasonable in my self-defense."

Nicky turns back to Ham, demanding, "What accusations did you level, exactly?"

Ham grinds his teeth so hard they _creak_ before he ultimately answers, "That she's someone to be carefully watched, a powder keg; vicious, methodical, a trained killer. I told John to watch his back. And to watch her, and for more than just her ass."

I nod my confirmation when Nick seeks it. "That sums it up, yeah. I told him I did what I had to. The thing he was questioning the most was the fact that I'd stripped the mobsters I killed in the warehouses here for their clothing, and cleaned the places out of any potential scrap or anything like I do everywhere else. You know why."

Nick seems a bit taken aback by the whole thing. "Well sure, you take it all to supply the Minutemen settlements. Hell, I've been to a few of 'em with ya recently; they're well-supplied and defended like fortresses. It's a welcome sight to see at the end of a long haul." He looks at Ham, features twisted in confusion. " _This_ is why you don't like her?"

Ham shrugs. "Never said I didn't _like_ her. Just that I don't _trust_ her. She's got somethin' wild in her I just can't ignore, like everybody else seems happy to. It ain't right and it ain't normal. She might be doin' good out there—shit, I've _seen_ she is, not gonna deny it. Not sayin' I don't like her, or what she's done. But I don't have to trust her."

I shrug, giving Nick's arm a gentle tug. "Can't win 'em all. I do want you to know, I've never had any problem with you, Ham. When you went after me that day, It'd already been a fuck of a day and I was exhausted. Just... didn't feel like putting up with any more shit than I already had. So while I'm not taking back anything I said, I do apologize for snapping at you like I did."

It takes a moment, during which he looks me up and down several times, before Ham nods. "Apology accepted. Still don't trust ya."

I snort, shaking my head. "Didn't think an apology would change that, believe me. I hope you'll be able to see past whatever it is you think is in me, one day." I rally an admirable attempt at a genuine smile, then peer up at Nick. "C'mon, let's go grab a table before it gets too busy."

Nick gives me an almost absent nod, then eyes Ham until we pass him. I elbow him again, regaining his attention. "What?"

"Let it go, Nicky. Ham's not gonna start likin me just because you look at him real hard." I smirk charmingly at him, then pausing at the first landing to listen, as I always do.

Nick waits, watching me curiously.

I grin and blindly pull him into the shadowed alcove as I listen, pressing a single finger to his lips and closing my eyes, resting my cheek on his shoulder.

 _We can shake it up a little_  
 _We can kick it up a notch_  
 _We can put it on the griddle_  
 _Better get it while it's hot_

Mags is tuning up for the night. It's not quite a full performance, just a chorus and a verse or two, but I stop to listen, anyway. I lower my finger from his lips, resting that hand on his chest; my other hand at his elbow sliding down to twine its fingers with his.

 _I'll meet you in the middle_  
 _You can show me what you got_  
 _If you're feeling lucky tonight_

"I always take a moment here," I murmur softly enough to know it won't echo, but I know he hears me anyway, "to listen to Mags sing. The acoustics are perfect here, and her voice is one of the few true beauties of the Commonwealth. She's part of the reason I settled here, part of the allure."

A soft huff of amusement sounds in our shared space, and he looks down at me with something akin to teasing admiration. "Sounds like you're a little sweet on our resident songbird."

My eyes blow wide in surprise, eyebrows climbing unbelievingly. "What? Hah! No. Don't get me wrong, she's a dishy dame; I'd go there in a heartbeat if my heart wasn't already taken. But it is."

I watch as something unbearably bittersweet passes behind those amber eyes, and just catch the edge of the motion of his throat as he swallows before he pipes up, "You know, I'm aware I'm not the most... well, what I mean to say is, if you ever need to look elsewhere, for more excitement, I wouldn't blame you. I'd be sore if you didn't let me know, don't get me wrong, but, I wouldn't—"

"Nicky! And Shana! How are ya?" John greets us as he beats feet down the stairs, away from Ham. He lowers his volume to something more intimate as he continues, "Charon tells me everything went well on your little ah, ghost hunt?"

Damn if he doesn't have just the most impeccable timing. But I still love every single silky syllable that comes out of his mouth. Wait... _love?_ When did _that_ —

"It went very well, yes." Nick supplies, when it's become apparent that I'm lost in the cage of my own mind, viciously rattling the bars and trying to tear my way out with my teeth. "Things running smoothly here?"

"Smooth as ever. Well, mostly. Morowski's giving me a bit of a headache—" I tune him out, because I can't _think_ past that voice of his right now. It isn't until a touch not native to _either_ of my hearts startles me from my momentary insanity, that I realize I've tuned out _all_ sound.

Charon stands between Nick and John, hand on my arm, and the volume gets turned back up like I've just broken the surface of the water that was drowning me. "Mistress, if you would please come with me, I wish to speak with you about my contract."

I frown slightly at the address, but nod and follow him, leaving my pair of dumbfounded hearts beating in erratic confusion behind us.

Charon leads the way, not stopping until we breach the restroom door. Once we're both inside, he locks the door and turns, bracing my arms as I rest my hands on his shoulders and just _breathe_.

As his shoulders rise, as he _breathes for me_ , I follow, copying his pace as well as I can, until my breathing slows to something resembling normal.

He knows in a few minutes, I'll pretend to be fine, that I'll be unspeakably grateful to him for the save, that I'll probably break down and cry.

I know that he'll stand there quietly, and be the rock in my storm that I so desperately need to maintain this thread of sanity I'm still somehow clinging to.

Because he knows, when he needs me to do the same for him, I'm there with a waiting hand and open arms. Ready to breathe for _him_.

It's not an arrangement either of us wants to be made public, or would even privately admit to, but it's one we both take a sliver of pride in.

Us monsters need to stick together, after all.

Our pack needs us.


	7. Chapter 7

He holds his Mistress in silence while she cries, as she breaks apart against the support of his arms; knowing he will patiently, gently put her back together again, once her waves of sorrow cease to beat against the shores of the comfort he provides her.

The past month has been one of the strangest, yet most _healing_ of his long, destructive life.

Being employed by someone who could actually see more than blank hatred or utter boredom in his face had been a shock at first, one he had only very rarely encountered before then, and certainly _never_ in an employer.

He hadn't earned his age-old reputation as an emotionless weapon for nothing, after all.

But somehow, she saw what others all around her were blind to. Even when she tried to show them this... _other_ - _space,_ this strange, parallel universe where Charon's emotions could be found, they gave it their best effort, then retreated all too quickly in the face of his seemingly vacant, dead stare.

Where others had only ever seen the death he wields as a honed, merciless weapon, she somehow sees the life beneath his armored facade.

There is no way for him to ever gain true freedom from his contract.

But he thinks, given time under her careful hand, he could become something like free.

It would be enough.

For now, he comforts his Mistress and slowly returns her world to something just to the left of upright and whole.

Exactly where she prefers it.

* * *

John's been a bit jittery this entire time, and it's starting to wear on his nerves.

Well, sensor net. Whichever, they're getting worn down.

When Shana eventually does return, eyes rimmed with red lids, John's on his feet the second hers step into the V.I.P. room they currently occupy, Charon right on her heels.

"Hey there, darlin'. Everything alright?" Hancock asks her, as he slots himself next to her, trying to get a good look at her face.

She smiles at him but it's wrong, sad somehow—like he breaks her heart just by being there. She nods anyway, assuring him with a calming hand on his arm. "Yeah, everything's fine." She glances between John and Nick, settling on something close to normal for her expression as she does. "You boys already order?"

Nick dips his noggin. "Sure did. Wasn't sure what you wanted, but John said he's got it covered."

John's already nodding his confirmation. "Yeah, it's all good. Why don't ya have a seat and we'll wait for it all to get here?"

Shana smirks softly and taps John's frock, jiggling what sounds like the mentats tin within.

Hancock lifts a brow at her, glancing down to where she'd tapped, then back up. "Y'sure?"

She bows her head in a single nod, holding the ghoul's gaze steadily.

John tilts his head in a shrug and retrieves what does indeed turn out to be a mentats tin from his inner breast pocket, picking one out of the bunch and handing it to her. He glances to Nick and tosses him a somewhat apologetic look, stating, "She asked," as his excuse in the face of Nick's disapproval.

She stands there, looking at the tiny chem tab between her fingers a mite like it's going to eat her. She palms it, then smiles brightly at John. "You go ahead and sit, I'll... be right with everyone."

John frowns a bit, but nods. "Alright, then." He goes and sits on the couch opposite Nick without complaint, tipping his own mentat dose into his hand before he returns the tin to his coat. He holds onto his chems as if waiting for her to take hers.

 _The hell's goin' on, here?_

Shana turns to Charon, resting a gentle hand on the old ghoul's destroyed cheek and murmurs, "Please watch the door and keep anyone but the food bearer out, when they bring it. I... I need that at my back."

Charon nods quickly. "It will be done." He turns and disappears around the corner, the distinct sounds of the rusty door closing shut behind him following.

When she turns back, there is renewed steel in her spine and stark determination in her eyes. She pops the mentat, not chewing, just sliding it up between gum and cheek, and takes a deep breath. She looks to John first, smiling softly. "John, the first part of this isn't for you. I'm sorry, but... Nicky needs to see me, first. Just stay there and be quiet a minute and let me get this out; I promise, I'll get to you as soon as I can."

Hancock frowns slightly, his confusion evident in his eyes, but he nods his acquiescence, all the same. "Sure, darlin'."

Shana beams her gratitude at him with a beatific smile, then turns to Nick. She looks down at the floor for a few seconds, hands lifting and repeating her nervous motions from weeks ago, and suddenly Nick understands what she'd said to John.

She lifts her eyes to his and begins to sign.

 _'Nick Valentine,'_ she spells out, with a smile so full to bursting with adoration, he almost believes she's signing him a love poem, instead of his name, _'I love you.'_ She signs her nerves again, laughing softly, blushing as she stills herself, expression still full of warmth, but gaining a more serious note as she continues, _'I have loved you for so long, that I hardly remember a time when I did not.'_

Nick grins at her like a love-struck fool, utterly obliterated under her tender gaze.

She hesitates, worry quickly worming its way onto her features, hands still poised to sign, the thought unfinished. Eventually, she sucks in a breath, holding it as she signs, _'But there has always been room for more in my heart. And I have always been too afraid to admit it... that I could love more than one person. That I could love more than just you.'_ She swallows, and releases the breath shakily, taking another. _'But it is true. I have been too much a coward to tell you, but it has to be said because the other one I love is him.'_

She points at John, then clasps her hands tightly over her stomach, finished, for now.

Waiting.

Watching Nick.

There is a single, soft knock at the door, followed by another. She purses her lips on a pained, but oddly fond smile as she turns and gets the door, returning the knock before opening it and ushering the knocker inside.

A diminutive ghoul ladened down with a tray full of dishes and glasses of varying sorts precedes her into the room, and she quickly takes the few steps to get around him and bring out the tray stand for him. The moment he slides his hands out from under the tray, she has him in her arms, squeezing him in a hug that he timidly, but affectionately returns.

She presses a kiss to the ghoul's cheek, then backs up enough to look at him, and Nick can see the color rise brightly on the parts of the ghoul's cheek that still exist. "Thank you, Gob. How are you, sweetie?"

Gob, apparently, smiles at her like she's the only person in the room. "You're welcome, Miss Shana. I-I'm good. People like me here. Got yelled at once, but Ham threw 'em out of town and I haven't seen 'em again. It's..." he nods after a moment of apparent thought on it, "it's good, yeah."

Shana grins at him, gingerly cupping his face in her hands, causing his blush to darken even further. "I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that, sweetheart. I had a feeling you'd find a place here you could stand—I'm glad it worked out for you, _so_ glad." She throws her arms around him for a shorter hug, patting his back gently then releasing the—slightly delirious—Gob. "I'd have you stay and chat, but I do believe you're still on the clock?" she reminds, with a proud smile.

Gob snaps out of his delirium quickly, nodding a bit frantically in answer, though there's still a slightly ridiculous, if endearing smile on his face, "Yeah! Yeah, I am, better get back out there, it's gettin' crowded. It was real good to see ya, Miss Shana."

He finally looks at the room's other occupants, though he doesn't seem the least bit surprised by the first one. "You too, Mister Mayor." He looks to Nick once John nods a friendly smile at the jumpy ghoul. "Oh. H-hi there," Gob extends his right hand for a shake, "I'm Gob. You must be Detective Valentine; I've heard a lot about ya."

Nick stands and, before he can make his usual excuse for his metal hand and offer the left, Gob grabs the metal one and shakes it eagerly as he grins at him. "Big fan of your work," He nods his head toward Shana, "Miss Shana's told us all about the cases you solve together, just like the pre-war gumshoes, yeah? Such a treat to meet ya, but I gotta go. Seeya soon, though!"

Nick nods at him just before the ghoul turns to retreat from the room. "Sure thing, pal. Have a good one," he just manages, before Gob smiles brilliantly, waving once and disappearing around the corner, the door closing behind him soon after.

He's left standing next to Shana, turning to look down at her as his mind returns to the occurrences of before their food arrived. One corner of his mouth pinches off to the side in consternation as he ponders what to even think, let alone say. He shakes his head and sighs, retaking his seat. "Let's eat. I'll..." he looks up at her and slowly nods. "I'll think about what you said."

"So, can I talk, now?" Hancock asks, eying them both in turn.

Shana nods. "Sure, yeah. We'll... pick this all up after we eat, I guess."

He sets his unused mentats on the side table next to the couch. "Guess I'll save these, then." He peeks over at Shana as he makes a grab for his food. "Yours gone, yet?"

She shrugs softly, snagging a high-backed chair and dragging it into the middle of everything, facing them, then takes her plate into her lap and sits. "Think it's only about halfway dissolved; it can stay there. Be more effective that way, anyway."

Hancock screws his lips up, wobbling his head in consideration. "Eh, yeah, I guess. Would last longer, for sure. Nowhere near as intense, though."

Shana snorts, spearing a fresh tato wedge with her fork. "Wasn't looking for intense. Just wanted to use it as originally intended, a confidence boost for public speaking and creativity. Didn't do much speaking, granted, but... I needed to get it out, and it helps me do that, so here we are." She shrugs, then stuffs the wedge in her mouth, ending any further possibility of polite converse.

John has no such compunctions about eating politely, asking around the steak stowed in his cheek as he saws up more of it with knife and fork, "Speakin' o' which, wha' di' ya say?"

"John, table manners. And I'm not telling you right now. Maybe in a bit." She shakes her head sharply. "We'll see," she concludes, sneaking a sheepish glance at Nick before returning her attention to her plate.

Hancock shuts his mouth and finishes the food in his mouth. "Sorry," he mumbles, then continues at a more natural volume, "and alright. You should teach me that hand signal thing you got goin' on there someday. Might come in handy at some point, who knows?"

Nick interjects, "Do you even know what it's for?"

John shrugs. "Not sure. Doesn't look like any tactical hand signals I've ever used. It some pre-war thing you learned together?"

Shana shakes her head. "No. Nick taught it to me. Well, partially. Nate taught me the rest. He came back from the front lines stone deaf, then Nora died and he couldn't hear Shaun crying..." Her fingers tighten on her fork and plate for a moment, her eyes staring off into that middle space she loses herself in sometimes, before she takes a sharp breath, straightens, and forces her hands to relax. After a few seconds, she concludes, "I learned from Nicky so I could talk to my brother. He was terrible at reading lips."

John watches her for a minute, after she finishes, then switches to Nick, nodding at him. "And why'd you learn?"

Nick shrugs gently. "I'd always known it. My... Nick's mother was deaf, so he learned at an early age. Grew up using it."

John sucks a bit of something from the front of his teeth, looking for all the world like he's pondering the very meaning of existence. "So it's a visual language to bridge the communication gap between deaf and hearing people. And... other deaf people, I guess?"

Answering nods from both Shana and Nick follow.

"Huh. Well yeah, that does sound useful. There're a couple people I know who might already use something similar, come to think of it. Be nice to talk to them without havin' them write everything down." He smiles softly, then digs into his meal properly, finally going silent.

Nick gives them a few minutes to eat in peace before he reaches out and carefully taps a finger on Shana's arm to get her attention. Once she looks at him, he signs, _'Is all this because of what I brought up earlier? About me and looking for more excitement?'_

She's already shaking her head, before he even finishes, quickly replying, _'No, it has nothing to do with that.'_

Shana sighs, setting her mostly empty plate on the tray, replacing it in her lap with the glass of whiskey beside it, which she immediately downs two fingers of. "It was John who suggested it, to begin with, actually—right after he figured out I was just as interested in him as he is in me. He told me to seek out my happiness, so I did. He helped me more than you know," she says, peering over at John with a grateful smile as he puts his own plate on the tray, "but he could only take me so far, before I had to walk on my own, for a bit."

She looks to Nick, after setting her glass back on the tray, giving him her full attention. "Neither of us can go any farther on any path until you decide what you... what you want. I'm not going to pressure you one way or the other. You know where I stand. If you want to talk to John or me about anything, feel free to, anytime. But this is how I feel. I love you both, equally."

John's soft gasp draws both their attentions, and he's staring at her like a man long lost in an endless desert, who's now suddenly discovered the way home. He slides to the edge of the couch, hands griping that edge like he's afraid he'll float right off of it if he doesn't.

She grins at him almost shyly, nodding softly. "Yeah, I do. I love you, John."

Finally, it seems his hands can hold him to the couch no longer. He bolts up, his legs carrying him with all due haste to her chair, where he plants one hand against the back beside her head, the other lifting carefully to her jaw, tilting it up toward him so gently that it's almost a suggestion.

By the time the ghoul Mayor's lips reach Shana's, Nick has cataloged several points of great interest to him in this scene of romance, strife, and relief.

There is indeed a deep, timeless kind of love between the two lip-locked individuals in the room. It's as unavoidable and undeniable as his own feelings for her.

It's also obvious they are both _trying_ to hold back on his account, and something in that attempt endears them both to him immensely.

And, despite his feelings for her, the spike of jealousy he'd expected to feel at the sight of her kissing John is... really not much harsher than a slight nudge.

 _Huh_.

As these facts organize themselves in his mind, he begins to come to something resembling a solution, somewhere in the rear banks of his processors.

When John eventually manages to pry himself away from her, with a love—and lust—addled grin, Nick believes he has the answer.

"I love you too, sunshine," John tells her, and Nick thinks the pet name more than appropriate, as the smile she gives John could light up a thousand rooms and still have plenty left over. Her hand strokes the ghoul's cheek lovingly, then rests on his neck as he presses his brow to hers, the brim of his hat lifting against the top of her head, but neither caring a whit as they steal this moment of perfect solace.

She budges him back softly, a smirk teasing her lips as she glances aside at Nick, then pointedly at John.

He seems to take the hint, and with a final peck on her lips, then forehead, he retreats back to his couch. Naturally, he then proceeds to take all three mentats, though he does tuck them between cheek and gum, as she did, rather than his usual method of just chasing the high.

Little as Nick approves of taking them, to begin with, he's at least a little bit mollified by the attempt at metering things to something slightly reasonable. He huffs a small sigh, finally deciding to speak. "I... may have a suggestion, for all this." He peeks between the two, finding both of them watching him with a laser-like focus. He swallows a bit nervously, but charges ahead anyhow, "Maybe... maybe a trial period. Nobody has to make any guarantees, but, an honest attempt could be made at it, at least."

He sighs, reaches back to rub his data ports in unease. "We'd need to make... rules, boundaries, some sort of... understanding of how it all fits together. Need to figure out how everything works. It'll take a whole lot of adjustment, and I'm really not sold on any of it actually working, but... I can't exactly renege on my offer now, not without being a hypocrite, anyway. So... I'll give it a shot, but I'm not making any promises, beyond doing my best to give it an honest try. That's the best I can offer."

"I think that's more than we were hoping for, to begin with," John quietly provides, "so I'd say that offer's more'n fair. Not sure what other offer you were talkin' about reneging on, though."

Nick glances to Shana, grimacing slightly before he reluctantly answers, "I'd told her if she needed to find something... some _one_ more exciting once in a while, I'd understand. That I just wanted to know about it ahead of time, but I'd... I'd understand. I didn't expect her to go all-out on the idea, but... it seems this was something planned long before I brought that up."

Shana dips her head, confirming his words. "Yeah, this has been in the works for..." she looks to John with a slight frown, "what, a little over a month, now?"

John nods after a few seconds. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

She turns back to Nick. "I honestly wasn't even sure if you'd consider the idea. I just..." she trails off, her words failing her.

Hancock picks up her slack easily enough. "She told me she couldn't drop you for what we figured out was between us. Said I wouldn't like the woman she became if she tried to force it. Said no matter what you were up to, whatever deal you had goin' on, she couldn't just ignore what she felt for ya. She was willin' to wait—to make us _both_ wait— for your decision on your part in this whole thing."

Nick frowns, squinting his confusion at John at first, then sliding his scrutiny between the two of them, alternating. "'Willing to wait'? You mean you two haven't... during that entire _month_?"

John's lifted brows and slow head shake are all the confirmation he really needs, but Shana takes it a step further.

"I didn't feel right doing anything with half my heart missing," she tells him firmly, if a bit bashfully, folded hands fidgeting in her lap.

Nick feels sure his heart would be full to bursting if he still had an organic one. As it is, his coolant has been pumping overtime through metal and silicone and plastic alike during this entire encounter, and it's patently obvious to him that it's not nearly enough to cope with it all. What has he ever done to deserve this dame? Crazy as the entire situation is, vexing and confounding as his feelings on it all are, he wouldn't even have _considered_ the idea, if she had been any other woman. If he didn't know her so well... if he couldn't see the damage she hid in plain sight, _just like he does_...

Maybe _that's_ it. Maybe he really hasn't done anything to deserve her—maybe her damage only matches his _just_ well enough that together, they form one-half of a functioning heart. _Maybe_ , he thinks, trailing his eye's aim to Hancock as he mulls it over, _her choice of partner for fitting the other half together with isn't so strange or random as he'd thought. After all, who else wears their damage as loudly as they do, but John Hancock?_

It makes a maddening kind of sense, when he sits back and really takes it all in.

A maddeningly _perfect_ kind of sense.


	8. Chapter 8

Looking out from his station by the V.I.P. room's door, the chaos the sea of people before him causes washes over his nerve endings—some quite literally exposed and aching at the abuse—the waves leaving sand and grit behind in their wake.

Not the least of these nerves are those which belong to what little remains of his ears—though he has to admit, they at least have it a bit easier than the rest, thanks to the woman crooning on the makeshift concrete rubble stage in the corner.

Still, it does not compensate for everything else.

The deeper frustration of it all is that the worst of it does not come from the all-too-familiar scenario of him standing watch in a bar; no, the worst comes from behind him, through the barrier of the wall and door at his back, from the two males currently conversing with his Mistress.

He is naturally protective of his Mistress. It is a fact of his conditioning, of his creation, of his existence. His very blood thrums with the desire to protect, to sacrifice for her—to _die_ for her, if only as a last resort. He is uncertain how the serum that was supposedly used on him at some point can still be in effect after all this time; he is not a man of science, after all, but he _is_ certain that the pain response is not a voluntary function of his biology. Unless it was the serum which caused it to be so. But even then, it is certainly not what nature originally intended.

Regardless, the threat from behind that door is one he cannot protect her from, and it makes every millimeter of his remaining skin crawl.

Not that he believes either the Mayor or the synth Detective would lay a harsh finger on his Mistress.

He is more adept than most at reading people, and though the synth is not organic, he certainly seems to feel and think as any organic sentient might. He has been able to read no less than pure adoration and unwavering loyalty to his Mistress, in either of them. No, the damage they might inflict would definitely not be of a physically violent nature. Indeed, it could be _far_ more violent than any physical blow ever would be.

He knows what topic his Mistress means to broach with them tonight. It was part of the reason he'd pulled her out of the waters that threatened to drown her so swiftly earlier. She needed strength and support to complete her task tonight.

And he will always be there to provide it.

By the time the door opens for anyone but Carol's prodigy, Gob, it is the synth which first steps out, followed by the room's other two occupants, all carting the various dishes and trays they'd previously ordered. It's near last call, and most of the patrons have long left to collapse into their beds or each other.

He falls into step beside her on the right-hand side, as he's come to understand it is where she prefers he remains when she actually allows him to perform his function.

Not behind, as a slave; not in front, like a shield.

 _Beside_.

On the _right-hand side_.

' _The place of honor,'_ she'd said with a somewhat jocular smile when she told him. At first, he'd thought she'd been joking, just having him on, but when he didn't immediately fall in, she arched a brow at him, nodding pointedly next to her.

He's since learned that she is simply always laughing. She uses it to play off her awkwardness, her pain—her sadness when it allows her to. The few who might've once looked at her oddly for the habit, have since learned it is simply a part of her, and if they want her help, they must also accept her laughter in the face of this world, which laughs back at her with maddening regularity and intensity.

She slides calloused fingers over his wrist, squeezing gently. "Any trouble?"

He shakes his head. There had been a few drunks, but nothing he couldn't handle with a stern glare. "No. It is resolved?"

She draws a deep breath, tipping her head in a shrug. "Something along those lines." She sets her plate and the empty tumbler of whiskey resting atop it on the bar by her butler, now the Rail's official chef. "Thanks, Cods! Need anything tonight?"

He tunes out her conversation with the semi-sentient machine, noting her fingers still lingering on his wrist, and flexing his fingers—making the ligaments beneath her touch wriggle—in reminder. It normally works, unless she has more to say to him. Apparently, this is one of those times, as she does not release him; only giving a light squeeze to tell him she's aware of herself and every one of her digits.

He glances aside at her... is there a term for what the Mayor and Detective are, now? Or are they anything at all..?

His Mistress had been vague on the eve's success, and he does not know anyway, so he does not bother to try his hand at labeling them.

The synth is the only one of the two who gives her touch on Charon's wrist a curiously inquiring look, mostly directed at Charon himself as if it's somehow _his_ fault that he has such a _physical_ employer. The vaguely disapproving glare he turns upon the Detective eventually deters him, for the most part; though if the synthetic man's expression is anything to go on, he will ask his Mistress about it, later.

Finally, she turns away from the 'bot, which takes all of their dishes and hovers off. She smiles at Charon, presses one last bit of pressure to his wrist, then removes her fingers. "What are your plans for tonight?"

A few seconds of watching her features in contemplation reveals to him that she would rather he have his own choice of activities for the night. Glancing back at the males still hovering nearby, it isn't much of a leap to guess why. "You would rather I did not guard the door?"

She blushes prettily, and he notes her skin pebbling in goosebumps everywhere it physically can. "I... well. No, I... don't really want to put you through ah... that." She frowns slightly, swallowing and clearing her throat. "Anyway, surely you've got better things to do?"

The deadpan look he gives her is the only answer she needs, but he is compelled to answer nonetheless, "No."

She squeezes her eyes shut on a frustrated sigh, only opening them to turn to her... companions. "I need to talk to Charon for a minute, I won't be too long. You can head there or wait? Up to you guys."

The Mayor nods quickly. "Alright, sunshine. Need your key, though."

His Mistress blinks then shakes her head. "Oh, right. Sorry." She fishes through a pocket at her hip and produces what Charon recognizes as her elevator key, which she then presses into the other ghoul's hand with a smile. "Here you go. You boys go on then, I'll be along in a little bit."

Mayor Hancock smiles and kisses her cheek, leading the way out of the establishment with a confident swagger.

The synth, glancing around at the empty bar first, takes it one step further and kisses her lips, garnering a soft, wanting whimper and a stroke of his cheek for his efforts.

"C'mon Nicky! There's more where that came from headed our way, if you ever leave her to it," comes the Mayor's teasing rasp from halfway up the stairs, and they all look to see the impish grin he's bent down just enough to let them see, before he turns and continues up the stairs.

His Mistress' peach-colored blush floods all the way down her neck, even touching the shells of her ears with her embarrassment.

The Detective traces the heat down one side of her neck with his metal hand, a sly smile on his synthetic lips. "So beautiful."

She tries to hide the blush that only seems to be getting worse, ducking her head down, though she tilts her head aside, giving his hand room to do as it wishes. "You're a horrible tease, Detective."

Said Detective smirks, then puts on an utterly scandalized expression. "Well now, I don't see how it's a tease to speak the truth, doll."

His Mistress levels a half-smiling sneer at the synth, growling softly, though the sound has so little bite it's laughable. "Stop trying to have me on the bar and go catch up with John, Nicky. I'll be with you both as quickly as humanly possible." She gently shoves at the synth, though it has little more effect than pressing her palm into his chest, as he isn't even budged by the pressure. "Go, you immovable man."

The synth hesitates as if he wants to correct something she's said, but a corner of his mouth turns up and he shakes his head fondly, then tosses his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright; I'm going." He tilts his head up to look Charon as square in the eye as a shorter being can manage. "Don't keep her too long there, ferryman. She's got an appointment with life tonight."

Charon merely arches a brow at the synth, offering no other response as the synth looks back down to his Mistress, smiles then turns and ushers himself out. He looks down to where his Mistress sighs next to him.

She gestures for him to follow her, tossing a small cap bag at Charlie as she grabs the two glasses and the fifth of whiskey he hands her. She's overpaying, he thinks, until he realizes she's paying for their meals, as well. "Cods, could you possibly whip up some steak and a side or three for Charon? I promise it's the last thing I'll order."

The 'bot hums thoughtfully. "Rad doe, rad stag, or brahmin, mum?"

His Mistress looks to Charon, lifting both brows and keeping eye contact as she nods at Codsworth, a silent order to provide his own preference.

He sighs. This is a regular exercise she coaxes out of him; the exercise of choice, in things that do not really matter. He looks to the Mr. Handy and grumbles for a few seconds, wavering under the crushing demand that he make a decision. He clenches his jaw tightly shut as he grinds out, "Brahmin."

"Very good, sir. And how would you prefer it cooked? It must be at least medium to avoid parasites these days, I'm afraid."

Now the _machine_ is demanding decisions of him. He glances to his Mistress, only to get a repeat of her insistence. The bar's edge creaks under his fingers' tightening grip. "Medium-well," he growls, at last.

"Oi, you there, giant," interrupts the other Mr. Handy. "Stop man-handlin' my bar. I didn't polish it just so you could put your grimy fingerprints all over it and rip it apart."

He sends a glare the 'bot's way, but forcibly un-clamps his fingers from the furniture, returning them to his sides.

"Charlie, lay off him," his Mistress insists, a placating hand raised, "I'm being hard on him right now, just... lay off him."

The machine waves her off. The other machine has gone about making his dinner.

He ignores them both, looking in question to his Mistress. "You are not... being hard on me, Shana."

She purses her mouth into a thin line as if she knows that every time he says her name, he means to say 'Mistress', and she can hear it in the letters of her name as she reads them from his lips. Her own lips loosen as she flits her gaze up to his, a soft sigh susurrating from her. "C'mon." She tips her head toward the V.I.P. room she's spent most of the night in. "Let's talk."

He follows her in relative silence as the glasses in her hand clink against each other, the liquid fire swishing around in the bottle's short neck to the time of her swinging hips.

His Mistress sinks into the largest couch in the room, toeing her boots off and lifting her sock-encased feet up beside her, then tucking them slightly under her, as she sets the glasses on the table beside her. After few seconds of twisting, the surprisingly intact old cap unscrews itself from the mouth of the bottle, and she's pouring two-hundred-year-old whiskey into tumblers that are likely just as old. She takes her glass, giving the liquor a cursory sniff and a taste, before apparently deeming it drinkable. She points wordlessly to the other end of the couch, and he sits readily enough. Handing his tumbler to him, she settles back into the couch comfortably, swirling the alcohol in the glass and watching it contentedly.

The moment he lowers the glass from the sip he'd taken—the flavor of it had certainly dulled over the centuries, but it is indeed palatable—and swallows, her azure eyes capture him in their regard, sweeping over his seated form as if taking him in for the first time.

There is a heavy sigh, and she draws another, longer sip from her glass before she turns fully to him and speaks. "Charon, I'm... assuming previous employers have... had you guard the door while they went into some room and fucked someone?"

He pauses, taking a moment to consider the question. It's no more or less blunt than most of her other private queries to him have been, so it is not the tone or candor that causes him to delay his answer, but an actual lack of complete memory on the subject. Things tend to get fuzzy, after two centuries. "There were... some who did, yes. Ahzrukhal most definitely did many times. Lynn always sent me to guard one of her nearby inner circle when she wished time alone with Butch. Why do you ask?"

She blushes softly, but answers without delay or hesitation, "Because I'm trying to figure out whose head I need to blow off, for forcing you to stand outside a door and listen to that."

He quirks a brow at her, even blinks, once. His Mistress is full of surprises. "You assume it was always a duty that was forced upon me?" At her nod, he shakes his head and explains, "It was not... always. In some cases, yes. In most, it was simply a form of my function that demanded I stay nearby. Even a trusted lover could slip a knife into my employer's ribs in the middle of sex, or after they'd fallen asleep. It happened many times, over the years. If I had not remained nearby to catch the perpetrator and tend to my employer, I would have found myself in need of a new one far more frequently."

She frowns, clearly skeptical. "And it didn't bother you, having to hear everything that was going on in that room?"

He shrugs, swallowing down another bit of his drink before answering, "I was protecting my employer. It is my function. A lack of ammo bothers me. Not being allowed to fulfill my function bothers me. Listening to an orgy in the next room ranks, at best, on my list of minor annoyances. So long as I can fulfill my function, I am... content enough."

His Mistress makes her displeasure at his conclusion known with the glare she pointedly fixes on him. "'Content _enough_ '? Charon, we've been over this. I want to keep you as happy as possible, not just _'content enough'_. I know there's only so much I can do to help you there, but _not_ adding to the minor annoyances list can't hurt."

He tilts his head as he turns it to look at her, expression pensive. "You realize not allowing me to perform my function lands you on the frustrating list, yes?"

She drains her cup and sets it on the table behind her, folding her arms over her chest somewhat ineffectually, her seated form diminishing the intended effect. "Can you entirely blame me for not wanting anyone to hear anything, the first time I attempt sex with my boyfriends?"

He arches a brow and partially turns, left knee sliding up to the seat's edge as he rests the glass and his hand around it on the back of the couch. "So that is what you are calling them? I admit I was uncertain how to label them."

His Mistress seems to consider the matter. "Well," she offers, after a time, "I suppose they could be called mates, since... I mean we're a pack." She wobbles her head a bit. "I dunno. Boyfriends, lovers, mates... whatever seems appropriate, I suppose."

Twenty less than savory suggestions pass through his mind before he shuts down that train of thought entirely. "As to your question, yes, I can understand your wish for privacy. I will obey any command you give me on the subject, but I cannot promise I will be... _happy_ about it, as you insist I remain."

Just then, Codsworth floats in and delivers his dinner to him, quietly leaving after he notes the ongoing conversation. Charon sets his glass on the couch's back, then tucks into the food with gusto.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Would you rather I insist you be miserable, Charon? Would you rather I be like Ahzrukhal? 'Cause I sure as fuck don't want to be anything like that prick. From everything you've told me... just... no. _Fuck_ no." She shudders visibly, then uncrosses her arms and turns halfway, pouring herself another glass.

He finishes his own, and she's reaching for it before he fully lowers it. Within moments, he has a full tumbler of whiskey. By the time she's turned back around to face him fully, she's already imbibed her first sip of the new glass. He sighs, the whiskey burn warming the breath as it billows from his nasal cavity. "No, I would not wish you to be as he was. Because, if you were to become like him, something so drastic as to alter the very essence of what you are would need to occur, and I am... uncertain we would survive such a thing. Or that I would wish to."

She acknowledges his statement with a quiet dip of her head and a lifting of her glass, which nears his. "To never becoming Ahzrukhal."

It takes a moment for him to realize what he's meant to do, but she is patient, and he belatedly lifts his own tumbler, tapping it as gently as he can to hers. They both take their drinks to seal the toast. He sets his glass aside again, efficiently wolfing down his food. After he clears most of his plate, he nods at her cup, then levels an even look at her. "If you consume much more, you will not make it to your bed with enough wherewithal to perform. I suggest slowing down, M... Shana," he corrects himself, quickly. He downs the last of his food, and quietly sets the plate to the side.

There's a deep heaving of breath from the other end of the couch. "Charon, how much does it _really_ bother you to call me by name?"

He winces; though the pain response hasn't been triggered yet, he does expect it at any time if her displeasure continues. "It is simply how I think of you. You _are_ my Mistress, whether or not you choose to agree or acknowledge that fact."

She nods after a long moment. "Does it then follow that I cannot also be Shana?" She holds her finger up, asking for a moment as she drags in a slow breath and stares deeply into her glass. The finger lowers. She looks at him. "Would you like to have the choice between the two, at any time?"

He quirks his head curiously at the query. "I would choose to address you as Mistress if I had the choice."

His Mistress grimaces slightly, then downs the remainder of her whiskey, setting the glass behind her and making no move to refill it.

He relaxes marginally at the sight, though he continues to watch her, wary of her next words.

When her pursed lips part to speak, she affixes her gaze to his and does not allow it to relent until she again falls silent. "Charon, I'm rescinding my previous order to only address me by my name. Instead, I give you a new one: from now on, you will choose the manner in which you address me, whether that be my name, my Minutemen title, Mistress, or any other name you choose, at any time. I only ask that you try to be reasonable about it all. Similarly, you will decide whether to remain by the door or not. I have a feeling you'll eventually get tired of it, once you realize those two aren't going to murder me in my sleep."

It takes a few seconds for it to hit him, but when it does, he frowns at her. "Those make no sense. You are literally ordering me to exercise free will."

She nods once. "That I am."

"How am I to follow these orders properly?" he demands of her.

She smiles patiently. "However you wish to."

As if choice is something he has been designed for.

As if it were that simple.

As if he were _free_.

But no, there are still many threads binding him to her by dint of his contract, and he will never be a free man.

No matter how many of her eventual orders taste like freedom.

He takes some small comfort in that, despite the perversity of it all.

"Very well..." he considers, then nods, "Mistress. If that is what you wish."

She chuckles softly. "For you to do what you want? Yes, that is my 'wish', if I had any. You're not a slave, Charon, no matter what your contract says." She roughly pats the pocket just above her breast, which crinkles softly with the papers of his contract. "Much as I'm grateful for what you bring to the table in combat and instruction, you know I don't like this thing one bit, nor the power it holds over both of us. It's not right. If I didn't know what it'd do to us both, I'd have destroyed it the moment I bought it."

A shiver races up his spine, chasing the icy fingers of dread that trail along it at the mere mention of destroying the papers in her pocket. He covetously eyes the outline of it in the fabric which covers it, but shakes himself not even a second later, shoving the thoughts that had gathered firmly away. "It is good that you understand then, Mistress."

An affirming grunt answers him. She slides her feet out from under her and hands him the bottle, grabbing her cup just before she scooches herself into her boots and stands. "My... mates, boyfriends, whatever you want to call them, have been waiting long enough. You've got your entirely optional orders, so I say goodnight!" She gives him a lazy, two-fingered salute, then heads for the door without further ado.

He glances down at the bottle in his hands, then scoops up his glass and plate and follows, depositing the dishes on the bar in front of the Mr. Handy resting in his charge station. He keeps the bottle with him, as he bounds up the stairs behind her, watching her back contemplatively.

His Mistress is a confounding creature; all contradictions and far too many freedoms and orders that taste like a glut of sugar on his tongue.

She is, however, unerringly fair.

In this, she did not lie.

However unnecessary he _still_ believes it is.

It is that fairness that tastes so overwhelmingly sweet, after all.

He is unsure he will ever fully adjust to it.

But at least he does not completely chafe under it.

At least she is, and never will be, Ahzrukhal.

There is a comfort in that he cannot ignore.


	9. Chapter 9

I crane my neck to seek out my balcony, and I'm rewarded by the exact sight I expect: two cigarette cherries glowing against the wood rail of the banister—two equally bright amber eyes behind one of them—and the outline of two very unique hats which the fairy lights behind my men cast in sharp relief. I allow a smirk to tug at my lips, breathing out a chuckle as Charon catches up to me, tearing my gaze away to land on him instead. At his look of question, I glance up at my balcony in indication, then back down at him to watch his reaction.

"They seem anxious." He lowers his gaze to me, overt concern in his expression. "Are you certain of this, Mistress?"

I drag in a deep, slow breath, tugging two smokes from one of my newly acquired packs and lighting them both. One I give to my... _contracted friend? Associate? Mutually assured emotional support net? Fuck, I don't know anymore_. The other I keep for myself, drawing a large plume of smoke from the filter between my lips, sucking it in, then letting it billow from my nostrils. I plant my back against the outer edge of the wall outside the Rail, crossing an arm over my ribs and resting the elbow of the hand holding my cigarette on a clenched fist. "I... yeah," I utter, softly enough that it's likely only he hears it, even with Nick and John's keen hearing. "I think so."

Charon remains alert, scanning the area as we smoke and talk. "That does not sound like certainty."

I huff a little laugh, tilting my head in assent. "You're not wrong."

His roaming eyes rest on mine just long enough to return, "I seldom am."

I chuckle, flicking the ash from my smoke. "Yeah, I don't... entirely know what I'm doing here. But I love them both, I can't just... it wouldn't be fair to any of us for us all not to be together." I gesture to the two silhouettes off-handedly. "Those two might not love each other outside of old friendship and camaraderie, but I do love them both and they both love me, Charon. And I don't know how else to make it work."

He rolls his shoulders, wincing slightly at some kink or crick he encounters. "Have you considered that the impetus to 'make it work' is not entirely on _you_ , Mistress?"

I bob my cigarette toward him in indication. "You've got a point, I can't disagree. But that's not to say all of it is on them, either." I sigh, rubbing the heel of my hand into my brow for a moment before I take another drag off my smoke. "Tonight... ah hell... this _whole thing_ is an experiment, not just tonight, really. But yeah, I mean, how else will we figure out if it can even work, unless we test it, y'know? Not to say I'm not nervous as fuck, but..." I shake my head, drawing the last dregs of my cigarette into my lungs and rolling the cherry off, tossing the butt into a nearby trashcan as I exhale, "still gotta try."

He's quiet for a long minute, though his roving gaze has settled solidly on me, his expression mildly bemused, and every bit as wise as his advanced age gives him the right him to be. At length, he looks up to the sight of the two men on the balcony, finally revealing his thoughts aloud, "Might I suggest you not keep them waiting any longer, Mistress?" He drops and steps on his own spent butt. "They have both smoked two cigarettes in the time it has taken you to smoke one."

I snort, glancing up at my... _boyfriends? Fuck, I have no idea what to call anybody in my pack anymore, it seems_. "Have they, now? Well. At least I'm not the only ones whose nerves are frazzled. Good to know."

Charon nods. "I thought you might see it as such."

I smirk and shove off the wall, patting his arm and heading over to my elevator. "Goodnight, Charon. Hope you don't get too bored. And get _some_ sleep, sometime before tomorrow afternoon, damn it." I arch a brow at him. " _That_ is an order."

He sighs and grumbles, but eventually acquiesces about halfway to my door. "As you wish, Mistress."

"Glad to hear it." I point above the door, at the radio lodged atop the door's arch. "Got a radio if you want to ah... drown anything out. Or just to listen to, whatever."

He merely arches his own brow at me, as the rumble of the elevator making the trip down starts behind me. He takes up what I suppose is his preferred posting for the night, his back against the wall just to the left of the door, arms tightly crossed; eyes returning to their slow scan of the area contained within the small alleyway.

The elevator grinds to a clunking halt, and I open the old wooden outer door, heading into the tiny alcove that leads to the elevator door itself. A red frock coat is the first thing my eyes catch onto, as my view lifts from my boots' toes to find the elevator's occupant, just as the door slides aside. A devilish smirk is the next thing I see, followed by the endless abyss of John Hancock's eyes, now turned to deeply shadowed pools of jet black oil under the brim of his hat.

I can't decide whether to laugh, run away, or have him fuck me against the lift wall.

 _Is all three an option?_

* * *

God, this is really it.

 _Finally._

She looks like she's thinkin' real hard about pinnin' him to a wall, and he's never been so turned on by the thought that it _might actually happen_ in his whole damned life.

But she hasn't moved, despite that hungry look she's giving him, and he's beginning to wonder why, until he notices she's actually _trembling_.

"Whoa, whoa there, sunshine, are you... is everything okay?" he asks with his gentlest tone, reaching carefully for her with gingerly outstretched fingers, taking a slow step toward her.

A shaky nod issues from her, followed by a halting, "Y-yeah. M'f-fine." Even she winces at her stuttering, and he is far less than convinced.

"Hey, c'mere," he waves her toward him with a crooking of his fingers, only continuing when she's folded in his arms, "did somethin' happen? The talk with Charon not go well?"

She shakes her head against his shoulder, wisps of her hair tickling the side of his throat. "N-no, that went b-better than exp-pected, actually."

John rubs her back, tucking her head under his chin as well as he's able, trying every which way to provide her comfort and a sense of safety. "Then what's wrong, darlin'? You're shakin' like you're jonesin' or somethin'."

He feels her shrug and the shiver that accompanies it just before she answers, "Just... n-nervous." She withdraws from him just enough to look him in the eye, a thin but slowly growing smile on her lips. "And maybe j-jonesin' a little b-bit."

John lifts both brows in surprise. He didn't think she'd become addicted to anything but the smokes, so it's news to him. "Whatcha need, sunshine? I don't have everything on me right now, but I got a selection, and we can go get more if I ain't got what ya want."

Shana shakes her head, the smile curving into something impish, though it's still fighting through thick overlying layers of nervousness—dare he call it fear? Sure _feels_ like fear, but he doesn't really want to think of what she could possibly be afraid of. He'd much rather chalk her shaking up to withdrawal symptoms than _fear_ —to reach the surface. "No. It's n-not a c-chem. S'just you."

If he still had more than a few scraggly bits of hair left, he'd say his eyebrows were climbing into his hairline at this very moment, but as it is, he'll settle for wide-eyed shock. "Me? Is that what this is about? You nervous 'cause of what we got planned for tonight?"

He sees her swallow, then nod. "Yeah, it's... I-I'm _scared_ , really. I mean it's..." she deflates a bit with a sigh. "S'all well n' g-good when it's a theory of how s-shit should go, b-but when you... I... _fuck_." She bites her lip and looks off to the side despondently.

He lifts a pitted hand to curl his forefinger under her chin, giving kind little encouragements to look back up at him with it until she finally does. "Darlin', you don't have to do this right now if—"

"No!" she interrupts, eyes wide, "No, I—I want to." Her hands cup his face, and though she's still a bit trembly overall, her hands are mostly steady. "I w-want to, John. I'm just w-worried as all hell, that's all."

He levels his best frown of concern at her. "Are you _sure_ about that, sunshine? You can stop this, _any_ time. You know Nicky won't mind any more than I would."

There's a second of hesitation, before she plies, "Call me sunshine again."

He smiles, more than a little surprised at the request, though he can't help but be pleased by it at the same time. "Anything you need, sunshine. Always."

A shuddering exhale gusts against his exposed chest, the frills of his shirt brushing his skin as they're buffeted by the current. She closes her eyes and goes still for the count of three, then opens them and draws a breath in, catching his gaze with a more sure smile. "Okay."

John has to check. He's not letting her go into this unless she's really ready. "Okay? Y'sure?"

Shana nods evenly now. "Yeah. I'm... I'm okay. Let's... let's go." She steps into the elevator of her own volition, though she does leave one hand clinging to his as she turns and presses the button for her floor. She looks back to him with a smile, though the nerves still worry her eyes. "I love you."

He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to her lips, murmuring against them, "I love you too, sunshine."

* * *

As the elevator concludes its ascent with a series of groaning clicks, I lift my eyes from the door and take in the sight of my little apartment, which now seems so much smaller for being dominated by the large bed against the far window wall.

Nick is standing out on the balcony, looking in through the open door, and by his cautious smile, I get the feeling he either heard what I'd said below somehow, or he's just as nervous as I am. "Well hello, doll."

I squeeze John's hand to ground myself one last time, then take my first real step into this new, strange relationship. _You have to walk before you can run, after all._

I smile a bit bashfully once the elevator slides closed behind us, returning Nick's greeting at last. "Hello, handsome."

Nick's brows shoot up in surprise, then twist into skepticism. " _'Handsome'_? You sure you're lookin' at the right person, doll?"

John snorts. "What, like she could call _me_ that any easier? You hidin' some good-lookin' guy in here somewhere, Nicky?"

I shake my head and half-drag John into the room, reaching out to snatch the closer of Nick's hands and tug it to get him to haul his own—far too heavy for me to move—ass into my room. I lead them both to the bed, pushing until the backs of their knees hit it and they have little choice but to sit, about a foot apart from each other. I carefully lift the hats from each of their heads, and set them on the desk, then turn to look at them both.

"Rule number one for tonight: no self-deprecation." I approach them, laying a hand on the cheeks furthest from me as I near them, looking between my two men and taking a steadying breath. "You both mean the world to me, and you're both handsome in your own rights, for so many reasons."

I focus on John, though my hands stay where they are. "John. Your smile lights up my heart, and your eyes set off an unquenchable blaze in... a much _lower_ region, every time I look at them." I grin at his naked surprise upon learning _that_ particular tidbit. "You keep me steady in a world that wants to rob everything of its goodness at every turn. I love how much you enjoy exploring, both that world and me. I love that you have the patience to do it."

I stroke his cheek, then turn my attention to Nick. "Nicky. Oh, Nicky. Your eyes might not be gray anymore, but I can still see the storms the clouds give up for them, plain as the tie around your neck." I chuckle softly. "I love waking up to see you watching over me out there. I love every part of you, no matter how battered or tattered or raw." I let slip my hand from his cheek to his jaw, trailing fingertips along the blunted edge of what amounts to his jawbone. "I love your soul. It's always shone so brightly for me, guiding me out of the darkness."

I back away from them, letting my hands fold over my stomach as they fall from Nick and John. "Rule two: share. Take turns. We're going to have to ease into this, and I don't..." I blush as several dozen possible situations slam their way through my conscious thoughts before I can push them away, "I don't think I could handle both of you at once, yet. But I fully plan on both of you getting equal attention tonight, so—"

"Shana," John interrupts.

I blink in surprise, then tilt my head. "Yes?"

He pats the bed between him and Nick. "Just c'mere and let us take care of you. _Please_."

I straighten, slightly taken aback at first. I glance at Nick, who's donned a fondly amused smirk, and eyes the spot John patted when he catches onto me peeping at him. I swallow the lump in my throat—though it doesn't entirely go away, to my consternation—and slowly, tensely, I near them, turn, and sit.

John immediately claims my right thigh with his hand, Nick my left, and before I know what's happening, Nick's tilted around in front of me, licking his way into my mouth, and John—imp that he is—is making his way up my neck with tongue and lips and teeth, aiming straight for that spot just behind my earlobe which he keeps eying when he thinks I'm not watching him—the same spot he found the last time he had me in his lap. By the time he reaches that spot and coaxes the first moan from me, Nick is there to swallow and return it with an eagerness that still surprises me.

I barely have the wherewithal to brace myself well enough to remain upright, instead of melting into a useless puddle. _I_ _ **told**_ _them I couldn't handle—oh, holy_ _ **fuck**_ _!_

One of them has slid their hand from my thigh and gone straight for the kill, slowly rubbing his fingers up and down the crotch of my vault suit; gentle, but firm, and I break the kiss to throw my head back and cry my arousal to the art deco ceiling. John is relentless in his teasing, and it's only belatedly that I realize it's his hand massaging me. But then, without missing a single beat, Nick abandons the pursuit of my lips and mirrors John's attentions on his side of my neck, and I am utterly _lost._

There's a hand—so warm, so firm and _warm_ —cupping and lithely caressing my left breast, a thumb rolling over a quickly pebbling nipple as if it's an afterthought—a very purposeful, random, _enticing_ afterthought—and I feel the bed depressing and releasing its tension beside me as Nick shifts until he's on his knees, mouth only leaving my neck at the last possible moment. The hand on my breast shifts and spreads, thumb and forefinger resting splayed on my collarbones, gingerly pushing me down onto my back.

John cottons onto what Nick's doing the moment after I begin to let myself be guided down, releasing my neck in favor of my ear lobe and adjusting his stroking accordingly.

Deft fingers gingerly pull my zipper down without any further preamble, the moment my back hits the blanket.

* * *

 _Fuck._

He can't help but lift his head from the attention he's giving her earlobe when he hears the zipper being pulled. His eyes watch Nick's pale fingers, trailing the zipper down, down, down, to just above where his own fingers work her through the fabric.

He swallows, knowing he's going to start drooling if he doesn't shut his trap, so he promptly does so.

Crisis momentarily avoided, he snatches his gaze up to see Nicky brushing the gold-trimmed material aside, revealing a pert handful of a breast to their eyes.

Nick is quick to tease the dusky rose-colored nipple, lathing soft, slow licks and gentle pinches of his lips around it, Shana's breath hitching and her hips moving against John's hand for firmer contact as Nick works her.

John slips his hand up from the apex of her legs—she lets off the most _delicious_ whine at the initial loss of contact, pressing her thighs together instead, chasing that high—letting his palm drift lightly over the newly freed expanse of skin, allowing his fingers to trace her softness and nearly weeping for its aching perfection. He skirts narrowly between her breasts, smoothing his way up over her sternum, left collarbone, then neck, holding steady there once his fingers curl over the gentle curve of it. His thumb tracks its way over that spot she favors, just brushing feather soft over it on his way to her jaw, carefully turning her head toward him with its slight influence.

He marvels at the sight of her as she opens her eyes to meet his, her so obviously drunk on sensation in the moment that he smiles at her own hazy grin. He leans down and teases her lips with his own, gentle, prodding kisses and licks, followed by more insistent nips; until something Nicky does makes her moan and he gives up all pretense of teasing and kisses the daylights out of her, swallowing that sound whole.

He kisses her until maddeningly, he finds he needs air more than her lips, at least for the few seconds it takes him to fill his lungs thoroughly.

A particularly ecstatic cry has him turning and basking in the view as Nick's hand takes over where his has slacked, only under the suit, now that the way is mostly cleared. Her hitching breaths and fervent moans chorus the wet sounds now escaping from Nicky's efforts, both at her breast and slit.

John smirks crookedly at it all, re-focusing on Shana's face, watching her descent into pleasured frenzy with great relish. He decides after a time spent observing, to again become an active participant, sliding his thumb to his side of her jaw and gently tilting her chin toward Nick, to once more give him access to that place just behind her earlobe that she loves so fucking much.

She fights him once she realizes his goal, shaking her head, eyes as wide as her delirious felicity allows her. "No, don't I'll... too soon—" she cuts herself off with a fevered gasp, biting her own lip and moaning wantonly until she releases it with a puffed breath.

After what appears to be a moment of deliberation, she turns her head of her own volition, arching her neck to give him the best access, giving in with a reckless abandon that he shivers exquisitely at the sight of.

Leaning down, he only teases the sensitive patch of skin at first, light brushes and feather-soft kisses, until her movements against Nick's hand become unavoidably noticeable. Only once she begins to writhe almost mindlessly, chasing after her peak, does he begin to suck and nip at the spot, dragging a keening cry from her lips that he dare not silence with his own, for fear of corrupting the purity of her sweet release.

John leans back, resting his head on his left hand, his right slowly trailing down her chest as it rises and falls at a pace that would concern him under any other circumstance. He watches as Nicky slowly retracts his fingers from her, nearly mirroring John's pose on the other side of her as Nick brings his glistening left hand up to his lips, sucking the fingers into his mouth and letting off a truly _salacious_ groan which John finds... _surprisingly_ arousing.

 _Well_.

 _That_ was unexpected.

* * *

Oh _God_ , the taste of her is beyond exquisite. He hadn't anticipated enjoying that particular flavor in the same way as Nick's body had, but apparently, he's been missing out with his current taste buds. Either that, or it's simply been so long that he'd forgotten what it's like.

Whatever the case, it's nearly the straw that breaks the camel's back in his decision on how he plans to play this. It's _tempting_ to change things up, but no, no; he's come this far, he's not going to pack up and ignore his preference, no matter _how_ good she tastes. He'll get to enjoy that sapor again, with a far more personal close-up soon enough, if he gets his way.

He looks down at her, just as she smiles up at him, her body spread in languid, boneless repose between him and John, not a care in the world lingering behind those shockingly blue eyes. He lifts his smirking face to peer over at John, only to find his friend already looking back at him, something akin to surprised realization etched in his gaunt features. John swiftly yanks his gaze away, down to turn it upon Shana instead; an unsteady smile forced onto his lips, which slowly turns into something with real feeling behind it.

Nick files the observation away for later perusal and dissection.

He has bigger fish to fry right now.

He leans down, nuzzling her cheek, kissing her skin, murmuring into her ear, "I think it's time John took his turn, don't you agree?" He backs away with a playful smirk, watching her softly blushing reaction.

"You sure? You don't want to join in?" she asks, reaching for him, concern piercing through her mounting eagerness.

He chuckles, nodding once. "Oh, I'm sure. After all, I enjoy observing every bit as much as I love to partake."

Both she and John lift their brows in curious intrigue. Nick grins at her, leaning in for a final, lingering kiss, then rising and planting himself in the desk chair, turned to face and observe them with keen interest.

* * *

I can't help but watch Nicky as hard as he watches us both, though John's efforts to go along with this impromptu performance are ever so mightily distracting me. Eventually, it's diverting enough that I manage to rip my attention from Nick, and finally pounce on John. I ravish his mouth with the searing intent of my own, pushing him back flat on the bed and straddling his hips, almost as a harried afterthought.

By the time the warmth of my now thoroughly soaked core makes it through to meet with the rising heat of his own arousal, I've broken the kiss, righting myself above him and grinding down on him lightly as I strip my upper half bare, finally freeing my torso to the cool night air drifting in through the open balcony door.

John thrusts up with a groan as he fills two hands with my breasts, just as my own hands push the fabric of the suit down to pool at my hips. My hands settle on his chest as he explores me freely, his eyes slowly taking me in—all hints of evaluation long obliterated in the face of an apparently rather acute desire to memorize every single detail, as if he fears never getting another chance.

I let him ogle me as he likes, though I put my hands to better use as I wait, setting them to the task of untying the flag at his hips. The fabric is thin and soft under my touch, and he sidetracks my efforts with a thrust that he times with his thumbs flicking over my nipples, making me gasp in surprised pleasure. Still, I am stubborn, and my continued efforts garner results. I let the weathered flag's ends rest on either side of his hips, turning my attention to his jeans now, that process far more straightforward than the odd knot he'd tied the flag in.

Just before I manage to grasp the zipper pull, he shifts his hands to my waist and tucks me to him, rolling us neatly to wrest my position on the top from me. He smirks down at me, and I can only describe his expression as smugly adoring, as though he's captured a wild and rare love, and tamed it _just_ enough to ride it.

Perhaps he has, at that.

He sits back, sliding his hands down my sides, catching his fingers in the folds of my vault suit and slowly, tenderly shedding it from my form, like the second skin it's become. It's peeled from my skin with deft efficiency, along with my boots and socks, leaving me utterly bare, and when he turns back from disposing of it all onto the floor, it's to take me in with the kind of fascination a starving man eyes a juicy steak with.

I give him a lopsided, self-conscious grin, then slide my focus to Nick just beyond him, whose gaze has taken on an intensity that utterly _devastates_ every single one of my nerves with _want_. I snap my attention back to John and reach up, fisting the fabric of his coat in my hands and dragging him down to my level, his arms bracing beside me just in the nick of time as I wrap my legs around his narrow waist and steal his lips for my own.

The surprised sound he grunts into my mouth quickly melds into a groan, then a growl as I roll my hips against his, the motion returned immediately and enthusiastically. I disentangle my fingers from his frock, sliding them down between us and resuming my attempt at his zipper, which I manage to wriggle down halfway before he pulls back and looks down at my hand, then up at me with a cocky grin.

"Well. _Someone's_ eager to get on with the bed christening."

I snort, quirking my brows incredulously at him. "And you're _not?_ " I shoot back, lowering the hand on his zipper to cradle his obvious erection through the denim.

A half-gasped curse escapes him, his eyelids falling to half-mast before he slowly schools his face and smirks at me in a way that I know means the best and worst kind of trouble. "Well, I never said _that_ , darlin'."

I arch a brow in obvious challenge, reaching up and tugging that damned zipper the rest of the way down, slipping my hand beneath the denim and cupping him through his briefs, stroking along his shaft teasingly. "Well, in that case, I'd say you're far too clothed, and that needs to get remedied, with a quickness." I reach up with my unoccupied hand, hooking a finger under his chin, urging him closer to me until I'm satisfied enough to tack on a, " _Please,_ " strained through teeth clenched in tense desperation.

John stares, wide-eyed and hungry for a long second, then suddenly wrenches himself back, fingers frantically working at his remaining garments. By the time he's kicked his boots over the side of the bed and started to work on his socks, I lose track of whatever thin thread of patience I had hold of. When he finishes and lowers himself over my frame, my hands are already reaching for him, legs hooking behind him and locking him in place possessively.

He holds himself up just enough to slide his shaft along my wet heat without slipping inside, teasing us both, as if we weren't already past the point of ready. Finally, he shifts his weight to his left side, right hand grasping his cock and tilting its head at my entrance. He lifts his eyes to meet mine, and it hits me after he stays in place for a few seconds that he's asking for _permission_.

Fucking _hell_ I love this ghoul.

I smile and press my calves against the backs of his thighs, nodding once.

With a grateful moan, he sinks into me, lowering his mouth to my chest as he listens to my pleasured sighs, seeming to revel in the moment just as much as I do. I've never seen him so unbearably happy as when he first begins to really move within me; his eyes watching mine intently while he both takes and gives pleasure with his careful, measured thrusts.

But, much as I know there are many possible reasons why he would wish to draw this out, they to not align with my current desires, whatsoever. I crook my finger at him, one hand sliding up his arm to rest on the back of his neck as he moves up my body to comply. Once he's looking directly down at me, I press a warm kiss to his lips, then ease kisses and nips along his jaw until I reach where his ear once existed.

"I'm not going to break, John," I murmur, a soft whisper of a chuckle following, " _Move_ , or _I'll_ move us." I nip teasingly at the corner of his jaw, curling an amused purr into the air next to his ear hole.

His answer is in a strained, breathy undertone, "Sunshine, I go any faster, this'll all be over way sooner than I want it to be. Got a little... too wound up. I want you to feel good, too."

I rest my free hand on his shoulder, my other hand lifting to stroke his scalp comfortingly. "I already do, John. Let go. I wanna watch you fuck me and come inside me. Let me see that, please?"

He draws back to look at me like he's not entirely sure he heard me correctly. "Y'sure?"

I nod, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips that he follows back down. "M'sure," I murmur against his lips.

John backs up, righting himself and sitting back on his heels, pulling me with him, hands gripping my hips as he looks down at me with a smirk and a shake of his head, and _finally_ begins to pump faster. "Remember you asked for it, darlin'."

I nibble my lip on a smile that spreads wide as I watch him. _"Begged for it_ , love."

His eyes slide shut, jaw slackening an inch before he regains control and refocuses on me. _"Fuck,_ how do you exist?"

I trail a hand up his stomach, grinning as I answer, "By being too stubborn to die before I had you."

The grip of his fingers becomes bruising, but I hardly even notice as he bites his lip and pounds his cock into me in earnest.

I smirk and tighten my walls around him as he slips out, causing his pace to stutter as he thrusts back in, uttering a tight curse as his tempo falters, pace turning erratic and frantic until he can't help himself any longer. He slams himself into me one final time, a strained, high admission of my name prying itself from his lips, followed by the escape of a deeply satisfying groan of release.

John stays there for a long moment, vaguely twitching within and without me, watching me through nearly squinted eyes as he pants, languid in his recovery. Once his arms stop trembling, he slowly pries his fingers from my hips, and crawls forward with his hands until he's bracing himself on them above me, then belatedly lowers himself to his elbows when he realizes he's still shaking too much to stay there. His eyes trace over my features with a wonder that borders on reverence, the lazy smile forming on his lips the perfect accompaniment to the gentle kisses he starts to pepper on my skin.

I'm smiling my contentedness and stroking his head and back in soothing motions when he leans down to my ear and says, "Well darlin', you've had me. But you can't die now, hear me? You keep that stubborn streak up. I want to get a lot more chances to make you feel good after this, alright sunshine?"

I nuzzle a kiss to his cheek and nod gently. "Alright, love."


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Physical abuse in this chapter. Actual abuse marked by dashes and o's._

* * *

" _Absolutely not."_

Amari slashes her hand through the air before her in refusal. "She hasn't fully recovered from her episode; her memories are still fragmented, in flux. She is doing much better, but she is still in a vulnerable state right now. Believe me, Nicholas, nobody understands the need to find the Institute more than I, but it's already reckless enough in your case; to risk brain death for _two_ patients? No. Give it some time, let her recuperate, then I will reconsider."

Nick sighs softly. "Fine, fine." He looks aside at Shana, as she stands up from the exam table, Amari reaching up to gently remove the all-too-familiar wires from her scalp. "We'll hold off on that for now. So ah... well. We had another purpose for visiting, Doc."

Amari nods and speaks up before he can elaborate, "Yes, I imagine you've finally come to have your new skin and parts fitted?"

He grimaces awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. "Guess there's no avoiding it now, is there?"

Shana shakes her head, smirking wryly at him. "It won't be all that bad, Nicky! Have some faith. You know I only keep the best salvage; do you really think I'd bring Amari anything but the best parts for you, of all people?" She cringes softly. "Ah. That sounded a lot less like favoritism in my head."

Amari chuckles, shrugging lightly. "Oh, I think you can be forgiven one moment of favoritism, in this particular case, considering how very glad Nicholas is for new parts," Amari smirks at him, "isn't he?"

He snorts, shaking his head a bit. "If you say so, Doc."

The good Doctor arches a brow at him, nodding to Shana as she eyes him. _"Want_ to electrocute your General, do you?"

Said General is doing an absolutely terrible job of keeping her blushing grin under wraps as he sighs in her general direction. "Can I think about my answer to that for a minute, Doc?"

Shana thumps the back of her hand against his arm in playful reprimand, only to hiss and shake her hand out in pain a moment later. _"Ow_. Keep forgetting you have no padding on that side."

Amari snickers through a grin and waves Nick toward the exam table. "We'll work on that today. I cannot promise we'll be finished by tonight, but I'll do what I can."

Shana rests one hand on the Doc's shoulder, smiling fondly at her. "Thank you, Doctor. We'll hopefully be back before nightfall, but I'm not completely sure what'll happen, so take your time."

At Amari's nod, Shana releases her and turns down to Nick, where he lays on the table, leaving a kiss on his cheek before she graces him with a smile. "Don't be a bad patient, alright?" She leans down to his ear, murmuring just softly enough for the Doctor not to hear, "I'll reward you in a manner of your choosing if I hear a good report from Amari."

He wraps his left hand around the back of her neck in a gentle grip, keeping her there as he whispers back, "You sure you can keep up with me well enough for that when I've got new parts?"

A soft rumbling of a laugh precedes, "Why don't you be a good patient and find out, Detective?"

He swipes his thumb across the skin behind her earlobe, just to feel the shiver race along her spine beneath his fingertips, reveling in the subtle control he has over her in this moment. "It's a bet, doll." He gently pressures her into backing up enough to face him, so he can reach up and lay claim to her lips properly, even if just for a few seconds, stealing a proper goodbye from her, before releasing her with a smile. "Good luck."

The look on her face by the time he can see all of her features again tells him—in no uncertain terms—that she fully plans to meet that challenge, head-on, and beat it, if possible... though there truly wouldn't be any beating it, in reality. Human stamina versus machine? There's simply no comparison, no matter how delectably eager she might be.

The fact that she wants to _try,_ though... that thought, more than any other, will drive him to behave for Amari, no matter how uncomfortable this ends up being.

Because he knows she's not doing it for her.

She's doing it for _him._

He can fathom no greater evidence of her affection for him.

* * *

 _Damn his teasing!_

He's going to drive me over the last few inches of the cliff above the valley of my insanity.

I'm very glad I wore underthings today because otherwise, this damn vault suit would be hiding absolutely _none_ of my arousal as I shove open the doors of The Memory Den, to the sight of three of my pack smoking in a semicircle.

John's eyes sweep over me from feet to face, lips grinning by the time his eyes meet mine. "Welcome back, sunshine. Nicky settled in for the day?"

I nod my answer to his question. "Yep-uh, all cozy on that wonderfully sterile exam table, ready for new everything."

Mac lifts the two fingers pinching his smoke between them in salutation, tossing a, "Hey, Bossy," at me.

I smirk impishly at him. "Heya _Mackie._ "

He rolls his eyes and summarily ignores my simpering.

Charon's scan of me is far more clinical than John's had been, his subtle nod of greeting met by my own soon after. "Mistress."

I take half a breath, hold it, then release.

 _He's just following one of my orders of free will_. I have to remind myself.

 _Even if that particular one irks me to no end_.

I force a smile onto my lips. "Charon." I glance at them all, then snag a smoke from my pack, lighting it on the flame John almost immediately provides. I roll my shoulders while I breathe in the first drag, stretching my neck as I let it billow from my nostrils. Shaking myself a bit to loosen my limbs, then straightening, I pat Mac on the shoulder when I pass him, heading on around the Old State House to the entrance of Goodneighbor, all three falling into step around me. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

"Are you fu-freaking _serious?!_ "

I don't blame Mac in the slightest for his surprise. Honestly, I'm a little shocked he managed to check his cursing—because I sure as fuck wouldn't have—at the sight of the absolutely fucking gigantic... does that even qualify as a mirelurk anymore? _What the fuck is that thing?_

Besides _huge_ , that is.

Between dodging the babies, hunters, kings, and razorclaws, I do my best to avoid whatever the fuck this hellspawn is spewing out at us all, but... well. Shit happens, when you have this many people running around, trying to kill shit.

A disgusting-smelling glob of the sputum lands on my right arm, and at first, I try to just shake it off... until I realize my suit is _smoking._

Oh. Oh _great_ , the giant shit-bug spits _acid_.

Suddenly, Charon is pulling me into the outer ring of the Castle, a gnarly-looking combat knife sliding free of his boot, and without a word he's aiming it at my arm, promptly cutting into my suit's elbow, above where the acid hit. Just before the weak acid eats through the fabric, he finishes cutting the sleeve free and shucks it from my arm. He examines the skin beneath, but after a cursory assessment, he drops my wrist and dashes back out into the fray without a word.

All in all, a fairly normal day in combat, with Charon.

Too bad it's ruined yet another vault suit, this time.

I holster my pistol and shoulder my shotgun, leaving the relative safety of my current cover, in favor of running headlong into the battle, skirting the edges to get behind the monstrosity of a mirelurk.

With some carefully frantic footwork and a good dosage of luck, I manage to get close enough to really unload on this big fucker. Shoving the barrels up between two massive armored plates, I finger the first, then the second trigger, squeezing one after the other.

Well, I managed to piss it off, anyway.

With a deafening screech, it jerks to try and turn around to face me, yanking my shotgun right out of my hands in the process, the barrels now firmly wedged into this monster's armor.

I make a mad dash to try and recover my weapon, as my pack ghouls do their best to harry the creature with their own weapons, taking pot shots at weak joints and softer sections of armor.

They manage to piss it off more than I did, just as I reach my gun, which then proceeds to smack the fuck out of my head, as the bitch of a mirelurk mothership swings back around to face everyone else, squalling its last rebellion against its impending doom.

I stumble, falling to my knees and one hand—the other pressed to the throbbing flesh of my abused skull—as I dizzily lose all grip on where I am in space and time, memories flooding my conscious thoughts and playing out before me, imposing their existence over the reality around me.

" _Trudy, I can't; you know Bart won't let me go anywhere. I've got to cook dinner, you can't be here when he gets home. I'm sorry." I shake my head and give my neighbor a regretful, but firm shake of my head, slowly easing the door closed and quickly making my way back toward the kitchen._

" _Who the hell was that, Shana?"_

 _I freeze in dreaded surprise, then slowly force myself to turn toward my husband; who, it seems, has arrived home early. I keep my eyes lowered to the tan and cream linoleum of the dining room floor as I force a smile onto my lips and speak in my quietest, gentlest tone, "I-it was just T-Trudy, I s-sent her away quickly. W-welcome home, d-dear."_

 _Bart sets his briefcase next to the door, pinching each finger of his gloves before sliding them off and setting them carefully on the back of the spotless couch. Off comes his coat, hung with care on the coatrack, just like his scarf and bowler. He fishes into his vest pocket for the rings he dares not wear underneath his gloves, slipping them onto his fingers, one by one. Finally, he takes the requisite steps to come to a standstill in front of me._

" _What did you tell her, Shana? Don't lie to me." He rolls his shoulders, I hear the bones grinding with the motion in the silence surrounding us, then the more subtle popping of his knuckles as he tightens his hands into fists, then shakes them out,_ _ **that**_ _sound making me flinch ever so slightly._

" _Sh-she wanted me to g-go to the movies with h-her. I-I told her n-no, said I had to c-cook dinner." It's a truthful answer, though I know I'm omitting things he would find more objectionable._

 _-o-o-o-_

 _He backhands me, the open-handed nature of the blow hardened by the rings he habitually wears when he's not in public. It's bearable, but it still stings enough to draw tears._

 _I straighten, as I know I must—as he's trained me to—and he takes hold of my chin, pinching it fiercely between thumb and forefinger._

" _Stop. Fucking. Lying!" he shouts the order, then scrapes his thumbnail against my chin as he forcefully releases me to point at my nose. "One more chance, Shana. One more. Then you make this difficult."_

 _So I tell him. Of course, I tell him. What choice do I have?_

 _Angry as he is about what I really said to Trudy, my reward for telling him the truth is only a hard, open-palmed slap. It's better than I expected, really._

 _-o-o-o-_

 _He gestures to the drawer we keep the stimpaks in. "Stim your goddamn face, and don't talk to that Trudy bitch again. Finish dinner, I'm starving."_

 _Just as I move to curve my fingers over the drawer pull, I feel the familiar prick of a needle, at the base of my skull._

The scene begins to fade, as does my equilibrium. Fortunately, it seems someone has been kind enough to catch me as I stumble about. _God, I've got to... who is... who's caught me? I have to apologize before Bart finds out... wait._

My vision starts to clear properly, and I realize I'm not just being held up but _restrained._

 _Oh,_ _**fuck**_ _no._

I don't recognize the thigh-sized arms holding my own arms to my sides, and considering they are the most immediate threat in my mind, it is them I initially attack.

Well, 'attack' might be a strong word. Wriggle a lot and try to slam my head back into the owner of the arms' head a few times is more accurate. None of my attempts connect—apparently, the steel band arm owner had anticipated such a rebuttal. I try to kick back at their legs, but they have me angled up just enough to take away any possible leverage. I let out a roar of frustration at my impotence, thrashing as much as I can against my captor.

It only clicks when I really, _really_ look at the arms themselves, with now fully clear and sharp vision.

Skin missing. Muscles and veins and bones showing.

 _Ghoul._

And not just any ghoul, but... oh.

Ah, _shit._

Slackening in his hold, I let my head lean back as my neck relaxes. "Damnit," I breathe out, "Charon, is that you?"

"Yes. Have you surfaced from the past?" His arms remain tight around me, uncertainty the theme of the minute.

I huff a few breaths of air, catching up. "Did I fuck up your contract?"

I feel his head tilt slightly. "It was not me you attacked, Mistress."

Scowling, I try to get a look around me, but apparently he's taken us away from anyone else, and the panic that begins to rise within me at the thought of whom I might've attacked floods my mind with guilty dread. "Who'd I hurt?"

"None were injured. You aimed your pistol at Mayor Hancock, but I removed you from the situation once I saw you were... not yourself."

I frown, still utterly confused.

"Who the fuck is Mayor Hancock?"


	11. Chapter 11

"Sunshine, please... lower the gun, darlin'. You _don't_ wanna do this, I promise you."

His chest constricts painfully as he watches her glare at him with something akin to fearful determination in her eyes, aiming her _'111 Special'—_ as she calls her heavily modified 10mm—at his head.

She grimaces, as if in pain, then mutters through clenched teeth, _"Never again."_

Just as she braces—she always telecasts when she's going to shoot; he absently considers that he needs to work with her on that—Charon finally creeps up behind her, sliding the stimpak's needle into the back of her neck, right at the bottom of her skull. Immediately, she goes wonky, gun clattering to the ground, forgotten, as she stumbles over her own feet and falls into Charon's waiting arms.

"I will remove her from the area," Charon supplies, hesitating only a moment to gather Shana to him more securely before adding, "It would not be advisable to follow, for now."

Much as he wants to ignore the ghoul's warning, the memory of the look she'd given him to the very last stays his feet from movement.

It was a look that not only bespoke her utter lack of recognition, but an imposingly resentful _hatred_ he's never seen in her eyes before, and fervently hopes he _never_ sees again.

He's not sure his heart could take it if she looked at him with clear eyes, and he saw that hatred still lurking within them.

* * *

He waits until he is certain of his Mistress' return to lucidity—at least, as much as she seems capable of returning to it, at the moment—before carefully lowering her to the ground. She stumbles immediately, still feeling the effects of the stimpak—administered so closely to her brain stem—and half collapses against him, fingers clutching his armor straps for dear life.

" _Fuck_ , why am I so dizzy?" she demands, sharply shaking her head, which only worsens the problem, evidenced by how she immediately topples to the right, only saved from slamming into the ground by his swift actions.

"You sustained a blow to the head, which triggered your... recall," he explains, quietly. "I administered a stimpak just below your occipital bone in an attempt to diffuse the situation and to reduce the swelling caused by your concussion. The dizziness will fade soon."

"Occipita-what?" she inquires, closing her eyes and apparently finding enough relief in the action that she keeps the lids lowered.

"The base of your skull, Mistress."

She ponders that for a moment. "Ah. So because it got shot in so close to my brain, it hit me harder than usual. Got it." She sighs heavily. "Can we sit? I feel like that'd be safer. The ground feels crooked."

He arches a brow at the last bit. While they are standing on the shore outside the Castle, the slight angle of the slope they are currently on is negligible. Still, he allows that it would likely assist in her recovery, and gently guides her path to the wall, setting her back against it as she spreads her legs out before her.

"Thanks. You can sit too, big guy. I don't bite unless y'ask me to." She snorts at her joke, head slumping gently to her left side, rolling the back of it against the wall in lax repose.

"I do not believe our location to be fully secure yet," is all the answer he provides.

A soft hum of acknowledgment rises from her throat, followed by a long few minutes of quiet recovery, the soft lapping of the waves against the shoreline filling the silence peacefully. At length, she speaks up, "So this Mayor person I don't remember. I'm guessing I'm supposed to?"

He shifts his weight to his left foot. A sigh slides from between his lips before he replies, "Yes. Do you remember the synth, Nick Valentine?"

She nods, smiling softly. "Yep-uh. _My_ Detective. He's getting new skin today, some replacement joints and screws. He's my partner. My boyfriend, too." She cracks open her eyes and peers up at him. "I get that right?"

Charon nods. "Yes. Which leaves a puzzling contradiction of memory behind. I am uncertain how much to say, in regards to the Mayor. I will say he is _not_ your enemy. I would recommend not shooting him until this can all be sorted out."

Shana blinks, tilting her head in what appears to be deep thought. Eventually, she dips her head toward him. "Alright. It's a memory issue, so... should probably talk to Amari about it, yeah? Makes the most sense."

"It would seem so, yes." He hesitates, then huffs a breath out and presses on, "Mistress, I feel it would be prudent for me to speak with the Mayor before you do. Do you believe yourself capable of standing upright yet?"

She quirks her brows at him. "I think... maybe? But why do you wanna talk to him first? Why can't I just talk to him? Maybe it'll trigger the memory if I do, like Nick's memory did for... well, _me_." She shrugs, looking up at him with frank hope in her features. "It's worth a shot."

He barters with a half nod, counter-offering, "Perhaps, but if it does not, he should be... prepared. It would be kinder to him if he were to be warned."

She scowls at him, skepticism and confusion clouding her narrowed eyes. "Why should he be warned? Amari said I'd have memory issues until everything settles, if he doesn't want to accept that, I don't know what to say for the man. What's the big deal?" she demands, becoming more and more agitated. "So what, I forgot someone. I'll remember again! If I re-remembered my entire damned life, I can re-remember one damn person."

Charon sighs, reaching up to rub into the remaining bridge above his nasal cavity. "Imagine if you forgot the Detective, how he would feel." He lowers his hand with a sigh. "It is no less important an issue to you."

Shana stares at him, stunned. Slowly, she lets her gaze drift off to the water, her voice soft and faraway when she uses it to say, "Oh. Shit."

He waits patiently until she looks back to him, after several minutes of searching for something amidst the murky waters.

It does not appear that she finds it.

"I think I can stand, probably even walk if ah... you want to go talk to him. That's uh, probably a good idea, yeah. I don't..." she frowns, shakes her head, then reaches out for him to help her up.

He gauges her capable enough of walking with some limited support after a few moments of assessment and leaves her by the interior Castle wall to finish recuperating in relative safety. He approaches the Mayor, the mercenary, and his Mistress' main Minuteman contact, where they stand nearby the higher of the crumbled sections of wall.

All three speak at once, and he halts, holding a hand up in a request for silence. "She is recovering. Do not disturb her." He looks to the ghoul. "Mayor Hancock, please come with me." He turns and aims for the keep's main gateway, picking up the belated sounds of Hancock's footfalls catching up behind him.

"What's goin' on, Charon? The fuck _was_ all that?"

He ignores the ghoul's demanding query until they breach the outer gate, stepping to the side and leaning his back against a nearby tree to face the frocked man, speaking as he nears. "I assume you were present or at least were warned that she could potentially forget individuals she has met since she awoke from cryogenic stasis, yes?"

Hancock tilts his head slightly, eying Charon with cautious dread. "Yeah, I was there. Why, what's this about? Who's she forgot?"

Charon folds his arms across his chest. "You."

The Mayor blinks, reaching out to the wall for support, as if Charon's answer had blown him over, like a stiff breeze toppling a leaf from its perch on its mother branch. He slides down the wall until his rear hits dirt, though this fact doesn't seem to register with him, as he stares out over the waters Charon's Mistress had only recently sought answers in herself.

Slowly, he reaches up and doffs his hat, setting it next to him, before burying his face in his hands. _"Fuck,"_ he mutters, most likely to himself.

Hancock takes a deep, shuddering breath, fingers seeking out his temples and rubbing them as he lifts his voice and addresses Charon, "What should I do? I don't... _fuck."_ His legs straighten, as he flattens his back against the wall and glares his bitter worry up at Charon, entreating him, "I _don't_ want to lose her. I know you've got some..." he waves his hand obscurely, finally spitting out, " _thing_ , some connection with her; dunno if it's the contract, or _what_ it is, but somehow you _always know_ what she needs. What does she need from me, Charon? _Tell me_."

Charon studies the other ghoul for a few seconds, contemplating his desperate plea. Just when it seems the Mayor is about to give up on an answer, the hope in his black eyes dimming to nothing, Charon answers, "Be what you have always been for her. Support her efforts, remain at her side until she sends you from it. Show her loyalty and she will reward it, as you well know. Give her space when she asks for it." He shrugs. "I have no... special connection, as you assume. I am simply observant. It is a part of my function."

Despite the simplicity of the answer, the Mayor seems to take solace in it, nodding and taking in a slow sigh of release when Charon finishes. "Yeah. Yeah, I can see that. That..." he huffs a sardonic laugh. "That actually makes a lot more sense than what I was thinkin'." He peers up at Charon with contemplative eyes. "So, y'think it's as simple as just bein there for her when she needs it, yeah?" He nods, ostensibly to himself, his gaze drifting back out to sea. "Think she'll ever remember me, or she and I gonna have to start all over again?"

Charon shrugs. "Impossible to say. Doctor Amari is likely to have more insight."

Hancock nods, snatches his hat up, brushing it off and donning it before he unsteadily stands, with the wall's assistance. "Right. We ah," he gestures toward the fort, "should probably head back in. Think I should try to talk to her or wait until we're on the road?"

Charon pushes off of the tree, his arms dropping to his sides. "That is between you and her. You would have less privacy on the road, however, she may feel more comfortable with MacCready and I present. I cannot advise you, in this."

The Mayor dips his head and offers a slight tug of a smirk to Charon. "Thanks for uh... helpin' me figure this out."

Charon considers the other ghoul. "Your status affects the mental well-being of my Mistress. While I find it unlikely she will ever be completely stable, it behooves me to bring her some small measure of stability, for her and those around her."

Hancock snorts. "So, you're really just doin' all this to make your life easier."

"...In part." _A very small part,_ he thinks, _but a no less true, or integral part_.

* * *

I watch as Charon and the smaller ghoul in colonial garb reappear through the gateway, focusing on the red-coated man curiously, digging through my memories.

But, just as I had recalled nothing when Charon first walked over to Preston, Mac, and that strange ghoul, I can recollect nothing now, either.

Charon said this Mayor's supposed to be as important to me as _Nicky?_ But wait... I _love_ Nicky. I _know_ what that feels like. I don't feel a damn thing like that for this ghoul.

At least, I haven't yet.

I shift uncomfortably as I continue to observe them. They speak between them for a few moments, until Charon leaves the Mayor to stalk over to Mac and Preston, likely formulating a game plan to bring back to me.

The smaller man turns as Charon leaves and looks at me, his gaze reaching across the open courtyard and dragging over my form; testing, curious uncertainty, reluctant hope in every ounce of his body language.

Despite the uneasiness the weight of his stare leaves me with, it is not a thing which drives me to deny it or back down from it. I meet it with careful scrutiny, regarding his now slowly approaching form with a measure of evaluation. I don't budge a single inch from my station by the workbench, back against the wall, arms crossed, even when he comes within three feet of me.

The silence feels heavy, dense, like wet humidity in the air between us. His fists clench and loosen habitually at his sides, black eyes boring into my head like he's trying to pry into my brain and rip something out of it.

The memories of him, if I had to guess.

"So," I begin—because it seems he won't, or can't, "I hear you're important as hell to me, somehow." I take a breath and unfold one arm, shrugging off the wall and extending my hand for him to shake. "I assume that means we've already met, but, seeing as I don't remember, I'd like to at least try to ah, re-start things off on the right foot. Shana Stewart, General of the Minutemen and all that jazz."

He eyes my hand and swallows, donning a crooked, sad smirk. "John Hancock, Mayor of Goodneighbor."

That _voice_... oh. Oh, my. Excess saliva floods my mouth as if I've been faced with a sumptuous feast, prompting me to swallow thickly. Memory or no, I know that voice means... _something._ Fuck if I know what, but it feels important. And damningly _warm_.

He pins his left wrist to the back of his hip and bends at the waist, right hand lifting to cradle mine as he presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles. He looks up at my surprised, blushing features, his smirk losing some of its sorrow as he concludes, "At your service."

I clear my throat lightly, offering him a small smile as he slowly straightens and drops my hand. "Ah... well, yes. Pleased to m-meet you, Mayor."

He waves me off. "Hancock, or John, please. You haven't called me Mayor in for damned ever. So," he partly turns, motioning to the fort, before pivoting back to me, "this was a big win for the Minutemen, yeah? How ya feelin' about that?"

I rake my gaze over the dilapidated keep, tilting my head slightly as I return to him. "Well, it's ah... good for them? It'll be great for coordinating our efforts and keeping the settlers safer, I'll give it that. But uh..." I shrug gently. "I did it for them, for their safety, not so I could get the feel-goods about it all." I snort and look down to my hands, frowning at them.

I look up sharply, finding his eyes. "I... I'm sorry I forgot you. I feel like I _should_ remember, but there's just..." I reach up and rub my neck, scowling at the dirt under my boots. "There's nothing." I look back up and catch the tightly contained pain in his eyes, just before he shoves it behind a mask of a smile. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, s..." he swallows whatever word he was about to say, instead spitting out, "sister. Amari'll figure it all out and we'll have you back rememberin' shit in no time."

The space between my brows creases with a wrinkle of worry, but I put on a brave smile anyway. "Yeah. I hope you're right."

He nods, once, and doesn't seem to be able to meet my eye. "Me, too, sister."


	12. Chapter 12

Something inside my chest pinches tightly and doesn't let go, from the first moment he calls me 'sister'.

There's just a... _wrongness_ about the word, like he's pronouncing it incorrectly, or something equally horrid.

No... worse, I think. A lot worse.

This whole not remembering shit is getting fucking _old_ now. First, my _whole life,_ now... _this guy_.

This... this _ghoul_ with a voice that makes me _very_ glad I wore panties today.

Just the thought of it sends a shiver tripping its way up my spine like an addict on a bender.

It's not just the voice, either.

Where he kissed my rough, scarred knuckles, the skin... it kinda _tingles_ a bit. I've shaken that hand out a dozen times trying to chase the sensation off.

Can't be something as stupid as _rads;_ I mean, Charon would've had a much better chance at leavin' those behind with his bear hug earlier if either of 'em were gonna do that somehow.

And I've been hit with rads plenty of times; it don't feel like this. This is just... weird.

There's also this strange desire I have to tap a finger on the breast of his coat; like it means something. Or, it's a signal of some sort.

The whole damn situation makes me _itch._

It's throwing Charon off, too, I'm noticing. He's a lot jumpier than usual, scanning more frequently, almost _frantically._

Must be sensing my tension.

This shit has _got_ to get squared away, soon as fucking possible.

If not for the fact that we've got three shotguns in the party, we would've been overrun by the ghoul pack that stumbled into us a quarter mile back, and I have no interest in becoming feral chow today, thank you.

Mac's taken up the space to my left, at Hancock's insistence—and even _that_ feels wrong, tainted somehow; like waking up with a hangover, an entire forest of mossy fuzz on your tongue—and he's chatting about... what's he on about, again?

Oh. Right. Med-Tek. Duncan.

He's been chewin' my ear off about that for goin' on a week now.

Not that I blame him or anything, I'd be chewing just as hard in his shoes—hell, probably harder.

But, if the marker he's pinned on my pip-boy is any indication, it'll take us... oh, two, three hours to get there, from Goodneighbor? _If_ we're not held up by fifty assholes along the way.

Frankly, I want to get to the bottom of this memory thing. We get that figured out, I find out why the guy at my back feels like a fucking _open, oozing, itching sore on my soul,_ then I'll be happy to go traipsin' about the 'Wealth fixin' all the world's problems. Or just Mac's. Whatever.

By the time I'm going stir-crazy enough in my own skull to just randomly pick targets and start shooting, I shove down the impulse and stop, turning on my heel to face Hancock. I scratch the patch of scalp around where Charon had stabbed me with the stimpak, a bit of irritation having risen in the past half hour at the site. "Look," I start, as I lower my hand to my hip, looping my thumb into my pistol's holster belt just to keep it still, "it's probably a weird question, but there's an itch in my skull that won't go away, so I'm gonna ask."

I jab his coat at the spot that's been driving me insane, only to find a rather firm, rattling presence reporting to me from beneath the thick fabric. "Why the hell have I been wanting to do that for the past twenty minutes?" I stare at him, pleading with him to end my madness with a rational explanation. "And what is that, anyway?"

"Mistress." Charon lays a gentle, but firm hand on my shoulder, shaking his head when I look over at him. "Not here. This location is not safe enough for the answer he would give you."

"Gotta agree with him on that one," Hancock concurs, "wait until we get to my office; I promise, I'll show ya what all the fuss is about."

I narrow my eyes, sliding my gaze over the both of them, despite having to tilt my head to manage it. I huff a sigh and turn, shaking my head. "Fine."

I glance aside at Mac, grasping the crook of his elbow in gentle solidarity. "We'll get Duncan's cure soon, Mac. Just... let me get my head screwed back on, yeah? This is gonna fuck with me too hard to let me be much good to you if we go now. I swear, it's top priority after I get my eggs unscrambled, alright?"

I watch as he draws half a breath, holds, then releases it, before he nods. "Yeah, Bossy. I hear ya. Just... _soon_ , please."

I snort and release him with a soft pat. "Believe me, Mac, I don't want to have my brain fucked any longer than I have to. I'm sick to fucking death of all this memory schmemory bullshit fucking..." I threaten the sky with a clenched fist and growl of frustration, because there is nothing else to blame, and it's a convenient target.

Charon palms his open hand onto the base of my neck, thumb and fingers resting warmly on either side, rubbing reassuringly.

I take a slow breath, forcing my muscles to relax as much as is reasonable in the situation, tossing Charon a grateful nod for the diffusing touch. Contract or not, the man always knows what I need most. It's fucking uncanny.

Fucking... _uncanny._

Huh.

Why do those words sound so oddly familiar together? I don't remember saying them.

Hm.

Another piece of the puzzle, perhaps?

I've never wanted to _rip my brain out of my skull_ and _scratch it_ so _fucking much_ as I do right now. The whole goddamn thing itches.

Can't even tell if it's the stimpak or the fucked memories.

Is this what losing my mind feels like?

Charon's fingers dig a little into muscles that refuse to stay relaxed, and he tosses me worried looks, between his harried searching for enemy movement.

What will be the twig that snaps, stealing the rest of my tenuous hold on reality from between my fingers?

Will I even recognize it, when it comes?

Charon's fingers are beginning to feel damningly like a vice; a hold, a collar, a lead, a guide... _control._

I shrug him off, storming ahead without a word beyond an angry huff, suddenly indignant and desiring only my own company.

No, not even _that_ , really, but...

It's not like I have a _choice_ in the matter.

Mac wisely hangs back by Charon, but I hear the hurried crunching of trash beneath the boots coming from behind me, and I know Hancock is trying to catch up.

No.

No, no, _no!_

"Hey, sister"—the word feels like poison being slowly dripped into my ear canal—"where ya goin'? Safety in numbers, doncha know?"

I stop, wheeling to face him, holding up a firm hand for Charon and Mac to halt where they are, fifteen paces to my left now, as I bore my gaze through Hancock's skull. "I'm not leaving any one of you behind. I'm simply..." I choose my words carefully, "creating some distance. Unless you want me breaking important things, I suggest you return to the group and stay there, for now. I need a few minutes to think and chill out, in as much solitude as the open road can offer. Capiche?"

The enamel-grinding glower he's giving me by the end of my little speech tells me exactly how little he approves of my current attitude.

 _Well, he can shove it, unless he wants me just losing all my marbles, right here in the dirt._

"Fine. I'll bring up the rear then. Wouldn't want you to break anything important of _mine,_ after all." He turns sharply and storms back to my pack members in a huff; taking up the rear position, true to his word, eyes dark under the curved brim of that damn hat of his.

"Fine!" I call back at him, "You do that!" I spin to face the way to Goodneighbor, to home, to the fucking Mayor's town; taking on a ground-eating pace and utterly _seething_ as I do so.

Why the fuck... _how_ did he... ugh!

I've never known _anyone_ to get under my skin that easily.

And he's supposed to be as important to me as _Nick_ _Valentine?_

Fat fucking chance.


	13. Chapter 13

By the time I shove the gate—who was it that called this stupid blue door a _gate_ again? Idiot. It's a door, just a fucking _door_ —open and stomp through it, hell-bent on going straight to my apartment, I am fit to be goddamn _tied._

 _Something_ about that little devil in a red coat behind me refuses to sit right with me, and the longer he exists in my vicinity, the worse it is.

I need _out_.

I can already hear that there's only one remaining set of boots behind me—steps heavy enough that I know it's Charon—by the time I near the Den, and at the last second, I veto going to the apartment, in favor of checking on Nicky, like I know I should.

Gotta see Amari anyway, no matter how antsy and pissed off I might be.

 _Fuck!_

Gotta get this under control.

I toss a quick smile and hello at Irma on the way down, and though I can clearly tell she knows something's wrong, I send every good thought I have left toward her for not poking the wasp nest with a stick of unwelcome inquiry.

Good woman.

 _Smart_ woman.

I need to get her a gift or something. Maybe a new dress, or one of those fancy cigarette holders.

Distracted as I am, I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs to a bit of a shocker.

Nicky's standing near the rear of the room, bathed in the harsh, clinical lighting of the lab, his entire upper half stripped of clothing... and all of the skin missing from his head and neck.

Logically, I knew this would be a part of the process, since I'd managed to get new skin from _every_ part a standard gen 2 synth has, including the face.

Realistically, it's still a jarring sight to see the inner workings of your boyfriend's metal-encased, computerized skull.

Still, despite how surreal it is, I manage to note that his chest and arms are now finally whole again, and for what I want right now?

That's _more_ than I need.

He's been staring at me from the moment I entered the room—whether in shock at my sudden arrival or embarrassment at his state upon said arrival, it's impossible to say, without being able to read his actual expression.

Ignoring his staring, I close the distance between us and collapse against his chest, wrapping my arms around his torso.

" _Fuck,_ Nicky, I missed you so much."

It takes him a moment to return my embrace, but when he does, the warmth of him surrounding me sends some signal to my brain that I don't feel very keen on looking at too closely, and one by one, my muscles finally, _finally_ start to unwind. I hear the gentle clicking of his aluminum vertebrae—much louder than I've ever heard it, but still familiar—as he turns his head above me, and I glance up just in time to see him looking off to the side and nodding his head toward me.

At his signal, Amari deigns to intervene, her hand gentle on my shoulder. "He cannot speak at the moment, General. If you'll wait until I can fit his face and tongue properly, it would be best."

I shake my head against his chest, tightening my grasp on him. "It's alright, I just want to hold him for a minute, we don't have to say anything else, Doctor."

Amari's voice holds hints of fond amusement as she replies, "Very well. Do be careful not to electrocute yourself, General."

Nicky gingerly snugs his careful embrace, one hand lifting to stroke the back of my head, a slight pressure from something solid touching to the crown of my head—what feels like some part of his exposed mouth mimicking a feathered kiss there.

I hum contentment as the itching in my brain recedes to a manageable level, one clinging hand releasing to rub up and down his back in gratitude for the comfort he provides, without question or complaint.

Something in the tender moment pokes, prods at, and at last unwinds the tourniquet of tension choking off the gushing of the wound in my mind—the gaping chasm of memory that exists there, like someone took a battle axe to my head and I'm still somehow alive, despite the utter devastation of necessary tissue that's somehow clinging to itself, slowly reforming connections and arcing sparks across the distance, like a marionette tugging the strings of my mind's archives to life—and after one last breath of what little lingers of Nicky's usual scent—smoke, coolant, oil, dust, musty clothes—I slowly release him, leaning up to carefully press a kiss to his metal chin.

"Better let the good Doctor work," I say, through a sigh that hitches a little more than I like, "we've all got things to talk about, and I have a feeling you're going to want all your skin for this."

He tenderly pushes me back, giving him room to lift his hands and sign, _'I don't need skin to talk, doll. What's going on? It's obvious something's up.'_

I shake my head. "No, let... it can wait. Let's get you fully set up, then... then we'll figure this mess out."

' _Shana...'_ he shakes his head, then continues to sign, _'what are you hiding?'_

I close my eyes, the air from my lungs sinking to the floor from the weight of worry dragging me down with it. Slowly, I shake my head and open my peepers back up, taking in a thick breath. "I don't know, Nicky. I got... I don't know. Charon could tell you more. My head got scrambled up somehow, and I forgot something, and the more time goes on, the more important that something seems, and it's..." I sputter a single tight, slightly hysterical laugh, "well, it's just driving me a little crazy, that's all."

Before Nick can respond, Amari interjects herself into the conversation, her attention switching tracks from Nicky to me in an instant. "What did you forget?"

I hitch a thumb over my shoulder. "The ah... devil in a red coat back there. The Mayor. Charon seems to think he's as important to me as Nicky, but..." I snort, glancing back at Charon, who's long assumed a station by the doorway, "no slight to you, Charon, but I don't see it."

Nicky's signing before Amari can recover from her surprise. _'You forgot John? ...Well shit, doll, that's not good. Charon is right, John is every bit as important to you as I am. John's your... lover, too."_ He pauses, like he's reluctant to continue, but does anyway, _'You love him. He loves you.'_

I stare at him in blank shock, tears spilling unbidden over lids that refuse to blink, and though Amari starts to say something, I can see her lips moving in my peripheral vision, I cannot hear a single thing.

I swallow and turn, walking from the room without thought.

Whether any of them follow or not, I have no idea, as my field of vision has narrowed to a tight space in front of me, only allowing me to see where I'm going, not where I've been.

I move in a trance-like state up the stairs and to the door, slowly pushing it open and passing through, only to stop directly outside.

A field of red and black blocks my view of the market square beyond, ripping my gaze from straight ahead to directly into the abyss of those eyes that heartily threaten to swallow me whole. I swallow again, and my throat is sore for some reason I can't name, making me wince in discomfort.

John Hancock—the man I apparently love, but can't remember; have probably kissed, but can't remember; have likely embraced, laughed with, maybe even _sung_ to, but _still can't fucking remember_ —stands not a foot away, watching me with something like a contained storm fighting to work its way out of him, and I have no idea what to do.

I take a breath, and my vision clears some—had I not been _breathing?_ Fuck this shit's got my brain on a skewer—and venture a few words, "Nicky tells me you love me. And... that I love you."

I watch as he struggles to keep a grip on the mask covering his emotions at hearing that, cracks in his facade showing me the truth without his permission. Eventually, he manages a shakily even keel, and replies, nodding once, carefully. "Yeah, sunshine," he swallows, tightly, and a warm flood races down my entire back at the word, a puzzle piece slotting into place at last, "that's... that's about the shape of it. But you still don't remember me, do you?"

I look down at his coat and press a palm against the spot I'd prodded earlier. "I remember some things. More all the time. But not all, no." I tap a finger against the hard form inside his frock's breast pocket. "What is this? Something in here," I point to my head with my free hand, "seems to think it's important."

He looks up and to my right, an inquisitive tilt to his head, and I follow the line of his sight to see Charon standing next to me; slotting into place like a limb, an extension of my form, the Siamese twin I was always meant to be born with. He looks on edge, and why wouldn't he be? What I've been doing to him for the past hour is beyond criminal, and I should be prosecuted within an inch of every law that ever existed for it. He glances upward, then back down to Hancock, and nods.

Hancock dips his own head and tips it toward the alley to my elevator, waving for me to follow.

I weave my hand with Charon's and follow the strange man who is far from a stranger, all the way up to my apartment, Charon in tow.

Hancock sits in the desk chair, scooting it across the floor until it nears the bed, which he pats for me to sit on.

I crane my neck to seek guidance from Charon, but he just nods toward the bed, giving my hand a subtle squeeze before gently untangling his ragged fingers from my scarred ones. He presses his now freed hand into the small of my back, pushing me forward with careful ease until I take the hint and start to move on my own.

A few seconds later, I sit tensely on the bed, looking at Hancock with trepidation.

He sighs softly, then plucks his jacket from his chest and slowly reaches in, eyes on me the whole time, pulling out a tin of... mentats?

 _What?_

I tilt my head in obvious confusion, which he _almost_ smirks at, then gently opens the tin and takes a single tab between his fingers, closing the lid and holding the dose out to me. He nods at it patiently. "Take it. Chew it up. Swallow."

I do swallow, reflexively, but it's in nervousness. I glance at Charon but don't wait for him to say or do anything, instead reaching out and impulsively snatching the tablet from Hancock's fingers, chucking it into my mouth and chewing quickly, swallowing it down before I can think about it too much.

 _Here goes nothing._


	14. Chapter 14

He watches me, waiting for some signal or word or thought to exist, and it isn't until I feel the less-than-subtle shift in the fabric of reality itself that I understand why he waited.

Finally, he smiles, the first real smile he's given me since I forgot to remember him, and suddenly I lose my nerves and my anger and my sadness and I grin right back at him. A sad kind of joy glitters in charcoal eyes that may have once been blue, as he says, voice warbling softly under the weight of a sea of emotion, _"There_ you are."

I gasp, eyes widening then slamming closed as I hear the voice that's both angered and aroused me _beyond reason_ for the past hour—as I _feel_ it sliding across my skin, slipping down my spine and up between my breasts, sinking between my thighs and curling its fingers around my throat—and fist my hands into the comforter beneath me with a moan I don't have a snowflake's chance in hell of silencing.

When I finally manage to calm my raging libido—and really, what _was_ that? It felt like a _memory_ , but I don't remember ever... not with _him_ —I open my eyes to meet his and find the exact same emotions lingering in his eyes as in mine, only with that added... that bit that... it...

It's not fair.

It's _not fair!_

Because I can _see—_ no, I don't even have to _look_ , I can _feel_ the love he so obviously carries for me, and I want to return it, _god_ I do, because I can see he so desperately wants me to and I know I'm _supposed_ to love him right back and I just _don't!_

Fuck!

 _FUCK!_

I hate this.

I _hate_ this. I can't...

I fucking _hate this_.

I can feel the mentat wearing off, and all I can do is stare at him and do everything I can not to cry, not to _weep_ for the loss of love that wasn't even anyone's _fault_ , it was just a freak accident of nature, of dreams, folding in on themselves and forgetting what happened.

I grimace and reach out, gently taking one of his habitually tensing and releasing fists in my hands, carefully prying his fingers loose and laying them flat against my palm, before covering his gnarled hand with my own, looking up to regard him evenly. "I... I'm sorry. I don't..."

I snap my eyes closed for a moment, holding my breath, then releasing and peering at him with determination, "I'm sorry... John. I don't remember you, not really. Not like I should, like I want to. But I _do_ want to. I can see... I can see that you care a great... that you _love_ me," I swallow, "and I _want_ to return that, but I can't. Not yet. Please, give me time. Be patient with me. I'm sure you probably already did all that, at some point, knowing me, but... just a little more..."

I fight back tears the blur my vision and tighten my throat. "A little more time, please? I _have_ to remember you at some point, and even if I don't... I mean I already fell for you once, it's bound to happen again, right?" I chuckle softly, though it's choked off after only a moment of life. "This wasn't anyone's fault, there's no reason to give up, just... time and details, yeah?"

I'm not even sure what I'm saying anymore, but the loss of eloquence doesn't seem to be the hindrance it likely should be for him.

He smiles, and again it makes me smile, even through the tears that he gently wipes away. Sliding the chair in front of me, planting his knees just between mine, he reaches up and slowly rests his open hand on my cheek. "I'm not goin' anywhere. You're my sunshine, where else would I go?"

I blush under his touch and lift my hand from his in my lap to the hand he cradles me with so delicately. "Oh, I don't know," I chuckle a bit sadly, "to find some dame that isn't completely bat-shit-crazy, who can actually remember you?" I smile through the painful irony of my own situation, shaking my head, pressing my cheek to his hand. "Somewhere that doesn't hurt you like this."

He raises my hand to his own cheek, eyes on mine as he speaks, "I'd rather hurt and be here with you, loving you than go anywhere you're not."

I swallow, catching the tear that rolls down his cheek with my thumb and wiping it away. "For now," I tell him, firmly. "I won't let you sit around and hurt forever, John. It's not right. But for now, yes. To give memory a chance. Time and details," I repeat the words like a mantra, as if it'll make any of this any better, "time and details."

* * *

Every time she looks at him, it's a with a tight smile she tries to use to cover her remorse.

Like it's her fault she completely forgot him.

Every moment.

Every laugh.

Every kiss.

Every love.

It's _almost_ worse than the hatred he'd seen in her eyes when she was freshly concussed and drowning in her past.

On the flip side of things, she's been paying a lot of particular attention to Charon—apparently, John isn't the only person she feels guilty for treating differently—going to great lengths to reassure and calm him. He hadn't noticed Charon acting out of sorts, to begin with; the giant always seems a bit jumpy, so a little extra caution isn't exactly a noteworthy thing...

To anyone but Shana, anyway.

To her, Charon's excess jitters shine out like a beacon, calling to her nurturing nature for soothing touches, and she doles them out in spades.

It's what she does, after all.

Still...

Despite everything he knows is wrong with the very thought, he can't help but feel somewhat neglected.

He's not _jealous,_ no, no.

He just...

He _misses her._

The her that loves him.

That sings to him.

That dances with him.

That sits in his lap and kisses him like he's the only person in the world.

That knows him and lets him shower her with affection and light her cigarettes.

That he loves.

Not that he loves her as she is any less, no, that's not the point.

Well... actually yeah, it kinda is, in a way; and doesn't he feel like fucking _shit_ for thinking it? The fact that he can't _show her_ all the ways he loves her kinda puts a damper on everything.

But, isn't that the _point_ of relationships? They take work, they're not just smooth sailing the whole way through. They're meant to make you feel like you've accomplished something if you manage to stick with them and not end up completely miserable.

Right?

As he watches her walk hand-in-hand with Charon, chatting away at MacCready without a care in the world as he takes up the rear of their little group, John finds himself less than convinced.

And he _hates_ himself for it.

* * *

"On your left!"

Holy _fuck_ this is a right catastrophe.

Mac's down, Hancock's off somewhere, and Charon and I are back to back, where we've been absolutely _swimming_ in ferals for the past forty seconds straight.

"How the fuck is there this many?!" I cry out to eternity, unloading _'Widowmaker'_ and fervently wishing I'd opted for a combat shotgun instead of her, only to apologize to her a second later when her second round of buckshot manages to finish the job on the last reaver next to me. I sag slightly in relief and reload, peering around the wall that my contracted pack member creates to see how many targets he has left, as my side is now clear at last.

He must've felt me looking, because he mutters softly, "Two in the rooms to the left, one remaining down the stairs. You are clear?"

"Yeah," I murmur back, "Any idea where Hancock went?"

I feel the jerk in his back as he shakes his head. "Negative."

"Shit." I bend down and retrieve three stimpaks from my pack, quickly uncapping and stabbing them into the worst of Mac's wounds. Doesn't look like he has any broken bones, so there's that, at least. After a minute of watching his tissue stitch itself back together, I nod my satisfaction and look up just in time to see his eyes flutter open.

"Bossy? Wha... happen?" He reaches out, clumsily trying to right himself before he's even fully conscious.

I put a gently restricting hand on his shoulder. "Nuh-uh, hold on and let the stimpaks finish their job. You got whacked good, Mac, just take it easy. We got it under control for now."

He nods and just looks around for a moment, recovering. "Ferals. Med... oh. Okay, I remember now. Wait, I saw Hancock bug out earlier, he ever come back?"

I purse my lips and shake my head. "Nope-uh. If he doesn't have a fucking brilliant excuse for it, I'mma have his ass for it, too. Any idea where he went?"

Mac winces and lifts his head and hand, looking down the length of him and pointing down the hall we've just come down. "Back that way. Looked pissed about somethin'."

I set my jaw and take a look at Mac's now healed and scarred over injuries, nodding my approval as I complete my basic examination. "Looks like you're mostly fixed up. I miss anything?"

He moves around a bit, then shakes his head. "Don't think so. Feels like everything's still attached, anyway."

I arch a brow, clamping down on a smirk. "Sure you don't wanna check?"

He looks at me like I've lost my mind and I stop trying to hold myself back, finally breaking into the snicker I've been holding back.

"What? It was there, you left the door wide open." I grin at him and stand, offering a hand up.

He glares at me for a second, shakes his head and sighs, then accepts my help, retrieving his rifle from the floor and readying it, shaking his head sharply, as if to clear it as he rights himself. He tosses a glance at Charon, then tips his head toward him, where he stands as a watchful guardian, his back to us. "More?"

I nod quickly. "Yep. Two in the left rooms, one downstairs that we know of. You good? Thought I caught sight of a bit of green glow from downstairs, could use some extra stopping power if we got a glowing one."

"You got it, Bossy." He shoulders his rifle, looking ready to take on the whole goddamn 'Wealth, even though he's clearly a bit unsteady on his feet from the stims.

I grin at him and pat his empty shoulder. "Good man. Let's get this done."

It doesn't take much to wipe the floor with the remaining mindless creeps, Mac's rifle slugs putting a solid end to what does indeed turn out to be a glowing one down the stairs. His faint dizziness must not be enough to put his aim off. Good to know.

Escaping that trial by fire, we work our way down, until we eventually reach the final room—dispatching yet another glowing one, a reaver, and a ghoul that looks as though she might've once been a very nice old grandmother, before she got her brains melted from between her ears—and Duncan's cure.

Frankly, at Mac's suggestion that we get out of here and deliver the cure—'Prevent'... I question the drug's name to Charon, stating that it sounds more like an inoculation than a cure, to which he has no response but a lackluster shrug— to Daisy, I am _more_ than happy to comply, especially when I see the piles of _human bones_ in the refrigerators, as if there had once been slabs of meat, sections of humans carved up and stored in there for... _preservation_.

 _Yeah, let's get the fuck out of here._ _My nightmares are bad enough already, they don't need more fuel, thanks._

"Charon, take point. I'll bring up the rear since our rear guard has utterly abandoned us." I'm already moving into position when an objection is voiced.

"Mistress, I would be the better choice for rear guard, since any ferals we may have missed will not attack me." His correction is gentle despite its infallible logic, the tone he uses merely instructional, as opposed to chastising.

I nod sharply. "Yeah, you're right, let's switch, then. Sorry, I'm... this whole place, plus Hancock bailing... I'm not all here. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Mac sneezes violently, stirring the dust about him in a gentle cloud. "Couldn't agree more," he mutters, "think the cleaning 'bot broke."

Charon snorts, shaking his head as he takes up the rear.

I toss a smirk back at him, then strike out for the surface, slightly dreading what we might find once we reach it. Or, at least, whenever we find Hancock.

* * *

He's had it.

Abso-fucking-lutely _had it_.

A nasty voice in the back of his fucked head screams at him that he's just being jealous, that it's all stemming from the green-eyed-monster, that he's lost perspective—and maybe he has, but he knows, he _knows_ what's driving him isn't jealousy.

Because he knows she doesn't mean it like that.

He _knows_.

All the little touches, every inch of those smooth fingertips, every softness of her embraces, every smile she showers on Charon and Mac are no more frequent or intimate now than any she's ever given them.

She's always been, as Charon's put it several times, a 'tactile smoothskin', and it's part of why John loves her so damned much.

But right now?

Right now, he just can't handle it anymore.

He needs a break from it all, from the suffocating weight of the loss he feels—the loss of her touch.

Their—whatever it is, he has no good name for it and thinking about it hurts enough that he hasn't much bothered—relationship as it is currently is something stilted, cut raggedly down the middle by a chasm he has no means to bridge but patience. He is a patient man, but at the moment, he's petulantly mourning his loss and wallowing in the desire to just make it all go away.

To _run away_.

The fighting had been thin the whole way in, so he didn't feel too awful about letting them deal with whatever stragglers remained—they were three highly competent wastelanders, after all; they'd be fine.

And he'd been at the end of his rope.

So here he is, stretched out on the sun-warmed hood of some Corvega model he doesn't care enough to name, fucked off his gourd on the now empty ultra-jet canister dangling from the fingertips of his lax hand beside him. His hat's off, resting safely on the roof of the car, coat unbuttoned, shirt open just enough to catch the lazy breeze floating by on his chest. Eyes closed, enjoying the mind-numbing, time-dragging effects that let him forget everything for just long enough to feel sane again.

Hopefully.

When he starts to come down, he'll light a smoke, finish that then head back in, probably with enough time left over to catch up and join them at the end of the whole deal, none of them much the wiser about his little chem break. He's got plenty of time.

Which is why what he really, _really_ doesn't expect to hear is the sound of gravel and trash grinding beneath some heavy-ass boots, and heading steadily quicker toward him. By the time he lifts his head and pries his eyes open to see who it could be, his jaw explodes in pain that the ultra-jet is in no way suited to numbing, his head slamming back into the windshield, a vague blur of a clearly ghoulified and _huge_ fist flying past before retreating.

A sluggish check of his hand to his jaw reveals it to still be whole if throbbing like an open wound, and the adrenaline from the pain finally manages to rip its way through the jet, clearing his head just enough for action, for self-preservation... if not nearly sufficiently for proper critical thinking.

Fortunately, something out there is looking out for him, because when he does get to his feet in preparation to retaliate, he realizes who his attacker is, and stops short.

"Charon?" He stares up at the giant in utter confusion. "The... the _fuck?_ What'd you hit me for? I coulda fuckin' _shot_ you, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Charon's mien is nothing short of furious, a raw edge of blistering rage John could never hope to match searing through every last ounce of jet in his system and replacing it with the mercilessly icy fingers of fear. Charon reaches carefully around John, so as not to touch him, retrieving the ultra-jet inhaler and holding it in front of John's face, before crumpling the cheap plastic in his fist and letting the pieces—plunk, plunk, plunk—fall to the ground. "We were nearly overrun after you left. There was an entire nest waiting for us in the next room. You _abandoned your pack to get high?_ You abandoned _her_ for _this?"_ he points at the bits on the ground, " _This_ is the gratitude you return for the loyalty and safety we provided you? That _she_ provides you, out of the goodness of her heart, _even_ when she can't remember who you are to her?"

A second punch is thrown, and as the dread knot of worry for the details Charon's left out fills his heart, John doesn't even try to block it, not that he could. He deserves this. He knows he does. Shana could be dead, MacCready could be dead, and he deserves this and more. His cheek is bleeding now, and he's pretty sure that tooth is looser than it was a few seconds ago, and only braces for the third blow that is most certainly coming.

But it never does. When he looks, Charon is walking away from him, fists tightly balled at his sides, and finally he catches sight of Shana, then MacCready and the relief that flows over him when he realizes they're both alive and safe almost takes his knees out.

Then, he catches sight of the new holes in Mac's kit, and guilt replaces his relief. When he sees the look in Shana's eyes—the disappointment, the anger, the confusion, the indignation, the sorrow—he's done for.

He bows his head and lowers his gaze to the ground, where it belongs. He stays there, feeling the blood drip down the front of his cheek, down to his lip, watching it fall off in fat droplets to land between the toes of his boots.

Soft, light, almost silent footsteps approach, and he knows they have to be MacCready's. The sniper comes to rest beside him, leaning back against the car with a sigh. "Sorry Duncan," he mutters, before John sees MacCready look at him in his periphery.

"What the fuck, you asshat?"

Now John looks at him, lifting a brow in a mixture of confusion and surprise, but MacCready isn't done.

The sniper holds up a finger, tilting his head as if listening to some whispered voice on the wind, then straightens, letting his hand drop. "No, wait. What the fuck, you _dumb_ fucking asshat? You couldn't have _said_ something, at the very least? 'Oh hey, I'm gonna go fuck off over here, good luck with that nest in the next room!' Not so much as a 'fuck off'? Come on man, I don't even... Whoa," MacCready falters, sliding left a bit, hands gripping the rusty hood behind him as he tries to steady himself, shaking his head quickly. "Guh... stimpaks did a number on my balance."

"How many you use?"

MacCready shakes his head, more slowly this time. "Dunno. Was out for the first few, but she used two more before we got up top, 'cause she found another place they'd torn into me. So, at least four? Maybe five, if I remember my wounds right?"

"Christ. It got that bad?" John asks, one load of guilt piling on atop the next.

MacCready nods. "Well yeah, why you think we're so pissed at ya? The hell you leave us down there for, anyway?"

John sighs and swipes at the trail of blood leading to his mouth, then drags two smokes up from his pocket, offering one to MacCready. "Sure you wanna hear it?"

MacCready accepts the smoke, lighting it with only a bit of weaving in the hand that holds his lighter. "Sure, I'm sure. Spit it out."

And so, he does.

* * *

Around the corner of the building, Charon waits as his Mistress paces and he slowly watches the red rimming his vision recede.

He'd pulled his punches, no question, but he still feared some measure of retaliation on her part. It may not have been violence against her, but the other ghoul had once been... was _still_ her...

It does not bear sorting out, in the end. Regardless of what the Mayor is to her now, he is still an important member of her pack, no matter how little she remembers. According to one of the first orders she'd given him, every pack member must be protected, just as she must. Just as they all protect each other.

He'd disobeyed that order.

So had the Mayor, for that matter; but the Mayor is not Charon.

The longer he waits, and the faster her pacing becomes, the more anxiously he anticipates her retaliation.

Why wait? Is the delay a part of it? Is she drawing out the inevitable as a small torture before the conclusion?

Or is he misinterpreting her anxiety? As ruthless as she can sometimes be, he does not believe her capable of such petty torments. Perhaps...

"Mistress?"

She stops, looks at him through eyes still glassy and red-lidded. "Hmm?"

"Do you wish retribution upon me, for breaking with your orders to protect your pack members?"

She blinks owlishly at him. "What? When did you break... _what?_ I don't recall you breaking any orders, Charon."

He shifts his weight to his left foot. "I did when I attacked Mayor Hancock."

She scowls in confusion. "What, just now? When you punched him?"

He nods, remaining silent.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "He deserved it, don't you think? And anyway, what possible 'retribution'," she air-quotes the word, "could I dole out, exactly? Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't, and even if I would, violence invalidates your contract. And even if it didn't, and I _wanted_ to, and _all_ the stars aligned to somehow prompt me to punch you back, you know what would happen?"

He arches a brow, maintaining his silent vigil.

"Not a damn thing, because punching you would only land me with a broken hand, and I'd be an idiot to try." She huffs, batting away his concern like a pre-war fly. "So there, that's where your 'retribution' went. Right into the damn gutter of uselessness and pointlessness."

Maddeningly, she immediately resumes her pacing.

* * *

It's dark by the time we reach Goodneighbor, and I just... I don't have the will to fight any of it anymore. I'm tired, I don't want to talk to anyone, I just want to grab Nick—whether he's finished or not—and climb into bed and fall asleep on his warmth for a week.

Charon finally dropped the whole retribution bullshit thing, thank fuck, but I still get the feeling he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 _Sorry, buddy; I got no spare shoes to drop for ya._

Handing the cure over to Daisy is a cinch; then again she's always been a peach, and ever since I cleared out the library for her and returned that book, she gets this sparkle in her black eyes when I come in, and always tries to give me a discount, which I naturally refuse.

She tells me to look after Mac, says he's one of the good ones.

I grin, coming up behind him and slinging my arms around him, planting an obnoxiously wet kiss on his cheek just to watch him squirm. I look at Daisy, wink, and say, "Yep-uh, I know," then release him and summarily steal his hat, running off laughing through the alleys of Goodneighbor toward the Den, a sniper hot on my tail.

A sniper who is surprisingly _fast_ , for having shorter legs than mine. He catches up to me right in front of the Rail, and I only manage to retain possession of his cap by handing it off to Charon, who merely glares at Mac when the merc begins to plead with him.

Hancock's fucked off somewhere again—likely the Old State House, as I've come to understand it's his office and actual residence—and honestly, I'm glad of it. I'm not one to hold grudges, generally, but _fuck_ if he didn't fuck himself and us _hard_ today.

I probably wouldn't have been so bothered, if Mac hadn't been injured and impaired for some time after, but... well, he _was_.

And, while I can't rightly put _all_ the blame squarely on Hancock's shoulders for that, abandoning us in the middle of a mission was still a shit move. Who pulls that kind of shit, honestly? And just to go _get high_ , on top of it? Fucking hell, that's just...

Well, there's a reason I'm heading to the Den, even if I took a bonding detour for the man who's basically become my annoying little brother, in this new life of mine.

I finally deem Mac's begging to be sufficient, and nod for Charon to release the poor man's hat to him.

Charon considers the hat for a long moment, then dons it himself, looking down at Mac solemnly. "You may have it back when you are capable of retrieving it yourself."

I snort a laugh at the sight of Charon wearing that ill-suited hat, which dissolves into giggling, and Mac turns at the sound to stare at me... then starts laughing himself, a moment later. I fall into the nearby bench, holding my stomach and trying not to spill out of the bench in my mirth, as Mac braces himself against my shoulder and laughs so hard I can see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Really, it's not so much that Charon used one of his rare decisions to choose to be a smartass, or even how silly the hat looks on him, it's more that we just plain _need_ this laugh, after the day we've had. And I, for one, am grateful for the opportunity he provided.

It's a long moment before we regain control of ourselves and stand, me slinging Mac into a hug and him belatedly returning it before I turn him toward the Rail and say goodnight. While Mac gives his hat—still resting firmly on Charon's head—a longing look before he disappears into the Rail, there's a soft kind of smirk on his lips just before he turns away, and that right there is a win, in my books.

I heave a weary, but pleased sigh as I turn to the Den, Charon trailing behind, still not bothering to remove the hat. I smirk at him and push the door open, smiling at Irma as we near her stage, the woman gracing me with a delicate wave, and winking at Charon.

"They're still downstairs, darlings. Should be done soon, from what I hear."

I blow a kiss at Irma. "You're a gem, Irma, thank you."

She rests her hand delicately on her chest. "Why thank you dear, and you're welcome, anytime."

I chuckle and head down the stairs, soft music—from a radio that's been flipped on at some point since I left—trailing into my ears as I reach the bottom landing.

 _You made me love you_  
 _I didn't want to do it_  
 _I didn't want to do it_  
 _You made me want you_  
 _And all the time you knew it_  
 _I guess you always knew it_

I freeze where I am, the song taking hold of something inside me and _yanking_ , hard.

 _You made me happy_  
 _Sometimes you made me glad_  
 _But there were times, dear_  
 _You made me feel so bad_

I half stumble over to the brick wall, back slamming into it as the _weight_ of memory shoves down on my mind, without actually giving me anything of tangible substance to grasp onto.

 _You made me sigh for_  
 _I didn't want to tell you_  
 _I didn't want to tell you_  
 _I want some love, that's true_

Charon tries to get my attention, his hands on my upper arms, gently shaking me as I stare a hole through his chest, utterly oblivious to his existence as I _drown_.

 _Give me, give me, what I cry for_  
 _You know ya got the brand o' kisses that I'd die for_  
 _You know you made me love you!_

I suck in the first air I've had since the song began, finding Charon's eyes with mine a moment after I regain an understanding of where I am, what I'm doing. I slowly reach up and rest a hand on his cheek, stroking it in gentle gratitude as a tear I hadn't even realized existed tumbles down my own cheek.

He releases my arms and his worry softens into sadness, mirroring me and tenderly wiping the next tear away.

I smile and impulsively hug his massive tree trunk of a torso, my hands not even getting close to reaching each other behind him. It's... oddly enough, not a normal thing for me to do with him, and I'm not really sure why, but this is the first time I can remember doing it.

Hesitantly, _gingerly_ , he returns the gesture, though it's clear he's more unused to it than I am, in this case.

I find, despite him being uncertain of it all, that he's actually good at it. The thought makes me smile as I gently back away, and I tip my head towards the room we've been standing just a few feet away from the entrance of.

I lead the way inside, and I'm greeted by Amari standing just behind a seated—now fully clothed and whole-skinned—Nicky, who has multiple cables protruding from the back of his head and neck. He doesn't respond to my arrival, so I assume he's in some sort of standby mode or running diagnostics.

Amari does notice, however; greeting me with a smile and a small wave. "Ah, welcome back, General. I take it the venture was a success?"

I had come back down to apologize for my behavior and to apprise Nick of where we were headed before I left, since he wasn't fit for duty just yet, and spoke to Amari about the memory issue. It ended up being a fairly short conversation, which went about the same way the one about my life's memories had, with the exception that it would be an easier transition to remember one person, as opposed to my entire life.

I nod, returning her smile. "It was, yes. Mac is very happy." I nod to my synth beau, resting a hand on his shoulder. "How is Nicky doing?"

"Oh, he's fine, we're just de-fragmenting his hard drives and freeing up some space for him, storing some of the files he never uses on these drives here," she gestures to a small server rack behind her, "It's been a pretty typical maintenance run for him thus far, aside from the new skin and parts. I had to custom-fit his sensor net into his new facial panels, along with a few... others, here and there. Really, that was the most time-consuming aspect of the whole ordeal. I never realized he had such a different type of sensor net than the other gen 2's, but I suppose it makes sense, him being the prototype he is. Anyway, he's tested all the new parts, and everything seems to be working smoothly."

"Well good, I'm glad to hear it," I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Any idea when he'll be ready to go?"

"Would now be a good answer, doll?" comes Nicky's own response, and it feels _so damn good_ to hear his voice that I lean down and kiss him right then and there.

"Seems the answer's 'yes'," he murmurs with a crooked smirk when I manage to pull myself away. At my nod, he glances back and finds Amari, gesturing toward the back of his head vaguely. "Mind unpluggin' me, Doc?"

She nods distractedly once, watching data scroll by on a terminal. "One moment. The data transfer is nearly complete."

"Doctor," I venture, "I know this morning you said you'd let us know when it's safe to return to the loungers and search for the Institute, but I'm curious if you might have an actual time frame for it, so we can have some idea when to come back."

Amari purses her lips, eyes still on the screen until she sees whatever signal she was looking for, then turns and slowly begins separating Nick from his backed up old memories. "I would say give it at least a week of actual _rest_ , General. Considering your injury and the memory issues of today, there is absolutely no way I would allow you into the loungers, even on your own, before any less than a week of rest and a daily administration of at least a half stimpak." She looks up over my head and waves to who could only be Charon, beckoning him over. "You are her primary caretaker, are you not?"

He glances at me as I look back at him, searching me for instructions, to which inquiry I just nod my head toward Amari. After a few seconds of internal debate, he peels himself off of the wall and comes to a halt in front of the good Doctor, nodding once. "Yes."

She nods her satisfaction and points right smack at my jugular. "Here, or," she lightly jabs the spot he'd stimmed me earlier, "here. A half dosage is all that's absolutely necessary, though I would recommend a full one by the time the day is through if she wishes to be healed enough to come back at the end of a week."

At this, I object. "Wait, he used that second spot earlier, and I couldn't even _sit_ straight for a full five minutes, let alone stand or walk. Granted, I _did_ have a concussion, but... still."

Amari waves me off, shaking her head. "No need to worry, if you truly are resting, General. You don't need balance to rest, do you?"

Charon answers for me, "I will ensure she receives the proper injections."

"Glad to hear it," Amari smirks at me after she notes the stink eye I'm giving Charon, then manages to distract me by pulling out the final cable from Nicky's head, which causes him to emit a short, strained, synthetic outcry.

Nick shakes his head, blinking a few times and rubbing his jaw like someone socked him one. "That always gets me," he mutters, huffing a sigh born of mild irritation.

Amari bends down to eye-level with the back of his head, using a small pair of tweezers and what almost looks like a flathead screwdriver, but oddly rounded at the end instead of squared off, to aid her as she fits a palm-sized panel of synth skin into place over his ports. She makes quick work of it, obviously being quite adept at the process, then slips the tools into their slots in her lab coat pocket and straightens, clapping Nick on the shoulder. "There you are, Nicholas, all done."

He stands and plucks his hat from where it rests on the table next to him, donning it as he turns to extend his hand to Amari. "Thanks, Doc; I appreciate it."

Amari smiles and shakes his hand, then points to me. "She is the one who got the parts, I just made them work for you, Nicholas. You should thank your General as well, I think."

Nick turns and smiles down at me, one hand lifting to carefully tilt my chin up and meet his lips to mine in a soft, slightly possessive kiss. "Thanks, doll," he murmurs against my lips, brushing his along mine and diving back down for a second taste, after.

It isn't until Amari clears her throat and smirks at us that he finally backs away with a somewhat sheepish grin, reaching back to rub his ports bashfully. "Sorry, Doc."

"No apology needed; you did thank her, after all. But I do suggest you find another space to occupy if you plan to continue in such a manner."

I can't help but agree, but before we leave, I have to ask, "Doctor, was he a good patient, or did he make a fuss?"

Amari quirks a brow at the question, but she answers, "He was surprisingly cooperative, this time around, though he did still complain a few times. But he was better than usual. Why do you ask?"

I hum a soft laugh, glancing at Nick before I respond to her, "Oh, we had a small bet, that's all. Thank you, Doctor, for everything you've done and continue to do."

She nods. "You are quite welcome. Now, all of you, get out of my lab. I have work to do."

I hook my hand into Nicky's new elbow, and pat Charon on the arm as I lead the charge from the lab, more than happy to comply with the good Doctor's wishes.

Time for a long, warm nap on my newly refurbished boyfriend.

Possibly followed by some sexy rewards, if he's a good electric pillow.

* * *

He watches from his balcony, waiting for her to exit the Den. He's been out here, observing, since she came through with MacCready's hat, waving it in the air like a prize, then tossing it to Charon once MacCready caught up to her. He'd seen as they laughed, as they said goodnight.

He knows how wrong he'd been.

Now, he's just biding his time until he can make a good entrance, and _try_ to get her to hear his apology.

Honestly, though, he wouldn't blame her if she didn't forgive him. He knows he fucked up bigtime, and he knows she deserves to stew on it for a while if she wants to. He wouldn't blame her a bit. He'd do a hell of a lot more than stew, in her shoes.

He wonders if she's telling Nicky what happened, or if she'll wait until they're in the apartment and have some privacy.

He wonders what Nicky will think of it all. What he'll do and say.

The Den door opens and he sees her boot beyond it, and he makes a mad dash for the stairs. He's down and out the side door so quickly that he probably looks like he's on psycho. But no, he's stayed clean for this, doesn't _dare_ approach her for this with a fucked head after earlier.

He bolts down the empty market street and as he nears them, they turn, likely to see who'd be running after them at this hour. He takes a couple breaths, then spits out, "Shana, can we, can I say something? I wanna apologize. Please?"

His hands fiddle anxiously with his coat as he catches his breath and views her glancing to Nick with concern, then to Charon with a quiet storm brewing in her eyes.

She opens her mouth, about to speak, then winces and shakes her head, gaze lifting again to Charon, a pain flashing through her features that he can't possibly name. He absolutely _refuses_ to.

Suddenly, Charon blocks his view of her, arms crossed and looking more menacing than ever. "My Mistress does not wish to converse with you. You may leave peaceably, or I will remove you if you refuse to comply. You have one minute."

John scowls at Charon. "You can't remove me from my own goddamn town, Charon. If she doesn't want to talk, that's fine. She don't have to talk if she don't want to. It's _me_ who needs to apologize; whether she accepts or forgives any of it is on her."

Charon remains unmoved. "Thirty seconds."

"Seriously?" He glares up at the mountain of a ghoul, "You're gonna remove me from my own town, are ya? How well you think that's gonna go with the Watch?"

"You are currently standing on private property, thus you are not technically in your town. Ten seconds."

"You know what?" John lifts his hands in surrender. "Fine. Fuck you. I'm gone."

He flips Charon off, turns on his heel, and returns to the State House.

Upstairs, when he sits down on his couch, he's greeted by the sight of a fresh shipment of chems, in all flavors and types of highs, and he thinks someone must be lookin' out for him, after all.

 _Time for some chem cocktails, ladies, and gents._

 _Time to fuck off from the world._


	15. Chapter 15

I wake to the feeling of warm fingers stroking my hair; pressing short, stubborn locks behind my ear in mindless repetition.

I shift to nuzzle my face into the neck of the man I'm laying on, a soft sigh preceding a pleased moan as I settle happily into this peaceful bliss.

The gentle jostling of his artificial lungs emptying into a quiet huff of amusement makes me smile.

"Mornin', doll."

The rumble of his voice fills my ears and sinks into my muscles, soothing sore spots from yesterday's travels and battles.

"I love you," I whisper back, because they're the only words I can fathom saying to him right now. I turn a kiss to his chest, the slightly velvety texture of his new synthetic skin giving gently under the light pressure.

Amari truly is an artist, and I hadn't realized how much so until I'd undressed my synthetic man as much as he would let me last night, and gave him the thorough going-over my curiosity demanded and his new skin deserved. Edges in the panels where a normal gen 2's skin would be rough and raised—thanks to their mass production and the lack of care the Institute had clearly taken in creating their external shells—are instead mostly smoothed down and even; not quite to the point of seamlessness, but close.

She's also done a marvelous job of copying what he'd deemed the important features of his original synth face—what signifying characteristics people most recognized him by, aside from the tattered bits.

He is still very obviously a synth; he's in no way trying to hide it. The now clean, smooth, uncracked, pale skin is a dead giveaway, if the eyes weren't indication enough.

He's still _Nick_.

He's just Nick _whole_.

His innards actually _protected_.

As they should be.

The hand that'd been buried in my hair switched to my shoulder when I moved, and now strokes the skin there, with feather-soft touches. "I love you too, Shana."

I smile and kiss his jaw before slowly dragging myself up until I'm braced on my straightened arms above him, looking down at him with a bemused smirk. "How waterproof are you now?"

The eyebrows I'd helped him draw back onto his brows last night—much to his consternation; he'd wanted to do it himself, but acquiesced, after he realized it made me happy, and saw I was actually doing a good job of it—lift and quirk into suspicious confusion. "Amari was pretty insistent on sealing me up tight, so I should be fine, according to her. Why are you asking?"

I toss a glance over my shoulder, at the bathroom, then peer back down at him with an impish simper. "Think you can handle a shower with me?"

Those brows fly up, then slowly lower, the smile forming on his lips turning devious, his eyes raking down, then back up what parts of my bare torso I'd exposed in raising myself over him. By the time he meets my eyes again, his expression of determination in the face of a tempting prize is all the answer I really need. "I certainly won't say no, doll. Just... might have to be careful."

I nod my understanding. "Of course. If it's too risky, don't worry about it. Definitely don't want you frying anything."

I lean down and press a chaste kiss to his lips, preparing to get out of bed and head for my shower, but he has other ideas.

He slips one hand over the back of my neck, the other anchoring my hip solidly above his, thumb stroking the flesh over where my pelvic bone gently juts there. He deepens the kiss as he holds me there, his lips and tongue leaving me breathless with a skill and fervor that shocks me every time I'm ravished by it.

Unthinking, I grind my core down against him, forgetting for a moment that him being a pre-gen 3 means he's... well, not _equipped_... until I realize with a start—from the unexpected discovery of a rather _firm_ , phallic-shaped presence beneath me to grind against—that he _is_. I gasp softly, starting to pull away so I can properly convey my shock, curiosity, and excitement; but he refuses to release me, returning the grinding motion, which stirs a satisfying groan from both of us.

The hand on my hip skims up my sensitive side, making the muscles twitch under the ginger touch until it reaches my breast, its thumb grazing over my nipple before its cousin forefinger joins it to pinch my flesh, rolling it softly between them like a toy they've so unselfishly agreed to share.

His attentions drive me to send a whimpering moan from my mouth to his, and I finally convince the hand I'm not resting my weight on to overcome its surprise and spring into action, slipping down between us to dive for the clasp on his ratty slacks.

Halfway there, the hand on my breast abandons its station and stakes its claim on my wrist, carefully pulling my hand up to rest its palm against his neck instead. "Later," he murmurs against my lips; the only explanation he offers before sealing his lips to mine and curling his arm around me, holding me to him and slowly, easily flipping our positions.

After several lingering smaller kisses, he abandons my lips in favor of peppering tiny, gentle kisses and nips down the side of my neck, along my collarbone, between my breasts and down my stomach. By the time I realize his aim, he's already sliding off the bed and pulling me to him, resting the backs of my thighs on his shoulders as he takes his time, licking and nipping his way from the inside of my knees to the base of my thighs, paying equal attention to each leg.

My anticipation is so tightly wound when he finally arrives at the center that I nearly lose myself at his first touch, barely holding back a scream that would no doubt send Charon running up here to see who was murdering me. Instead, I manage to restrict it to a tight, strained whimper, which ends its life as a high cry, as his warm lips surround and apply gently suction to my clit.

He spreads his hands out over my hips, keeping them still as he works at me, eyes watching mine with a smoldering intensity that I somehow know all too well; though the exact memory of it escapes me, to my consternation. My confused aggravation is soon forgotten, however, in the face of his onslaught.

Nicky's tongue is agile and eager, seeking out every possibility for pleasure it can find, testing, prodding; his lips doing the worshiping as his tongue explores new territory to set altars upon.

When one of my hands makes its way to the top of his head, intently holding him to a particular spot he's found, I feel the evidence of his smile against me; even as one of his hands abandons its post to draw my hand from his head and gently pin it to the bed next to my hip, before he threads his hand back under my leg and weaves his fingers with mine.

I volunteer my other hand to his, and he readily accepts, then presses forward with his charge, seemingly more sure of his position than he had been, closing his eyes and delving into his devotion with a heated growl of pleasure so delicious it makes me _squirm_.

It takes embarrassingly little time for me to come, but he only seems to be more excited by the prospect, as I lay bonelessly on the bed, twitching while he languidly laps up my excess juices with a reverence that borders on absurdity.

When he finally deems me clean, he rests his cheek on my thigh and watches me recover, a quiet smile decorating his wet lips with its influence.

I chuckle, a sated, lazy smile adorning my own mouth, laying back and melting into the bed. "You _really_ seem to enjoy doing that."

His voice is rough and low as he answers, "If you had any idea how good you taste, you wouldn't be so surprised, doll."

I look down at him with a lifted brow, then tilt my head and smirk at him. "Well, why don't you get up here and show me?"

He's halfway up my length before I cotton onto that fact that he's _still_ half-clothed. _Unacceptable_. I point at his pants, brow arched. "Off."

Nick arches his own brow at me, glancing down to his sharply tented pants, then facing me again with something like trepidation. I catch the motion of his throat constricting on a swallow, just before he shifts his weight to his right hand and sets his left to the task of ridding himself of his trousers.

He's watching me when he bares himself, looking every bit like he's trying to catch my honest reaction.

I'm not really sure what I expected before I saw it, but it's... well, surprisingly _normal_. Or, at least, normal for a synth I suppose, considering how pale it is—just like the rest of him. It seems slightly plain, lacking a lot of minute details, as if the person who'd originally created it didn't have much experience with the real deal, or the actual anatomy behind it. Or more likely, didn't care. But aside from that, it's just an ordinary cock. Maybe this is what Amari meant about him having a unique sensor net? I file the thought away for later and turn back up to him with a pleased, but expectant expression. "Better. You comin' down here, or do I have to come up there?"

He watches me for a few seconds, as if he's testing me, waiting to see if that's really all I have to say, but at last he takes the hint and sinks down to my level—nestling his hips between mine as I hook my legs around his waist and leaning down to let me savor my sapor on his tongue, which I suck on the moment he introduces it into my mouth. The lustful groan that garners is more than worth it, and if that wasn't enough, the slide of his cock along my folds as he grinds into me seals the deal and forces a soft whimper from my own throat.

I let him steal his tongue back from its captivity in my mouth, my hands taking on minds of their own as my fingers explore his new skin with reckless abandon. When my right grasps a handful of ass cheek, he halts his trek toward that one damn spot on my neck, taking a detour to back up and look down at me with a lifted eyebrow. "Eager beaver, are we?"

I snort a giggle at the double entendre, grinning up at him and nodding. "Of course." I raise my left hand to cup the side of his face. "But I suppose I've already waited two-hundred and thirteen years or so, what's a few more seconds?"

I'm more grateful than I'll ever say when he doesn't make me wait longer than _two_ more.

* * *

The cold shower after is more necessary than any cold shower I've ever taken, not so much because I'm a sweaty, sticky mess—which I _am_... god, we both are, despite his inability to sweat. It's the only reason he joined me: so he wouldn't smell like a damned brothel for the rest of the day—but because I really, really need to calm down.

This man... holy _fuck_.

I've been wound up before in my life—my bastard ex-husband Bart wasn't the only person I'd ever been with, after all; I'd been a college girl, once—but I couldn't remember _anyone_ that could drive me up the wall of mind-numbing, absolutely insanity-inducing pleasure easier, faster, or more happily than Nick does.

And apparently, I do the same for him, because even now, when he knows we need to be heading out, he can't keep his hands to himself.

His _hands,_ god... if he was good with his mouth and his cock, his hands, with all the finely-tuned metal bones and ligaments and sensors they contain, take the cake. It's his hands that he works me with now, playing me like a pitch-perfect violin, and I've never seen a man derive more pleasure from giving _me_ pleasure than he does, but he _does_ , and it's agonizingly beautiful.

As I buck against him, the back of my neck curving over his shoulder, where my head rests while I cry his name to the ceiling, I can just see the smile his lust sharpens with that raw need he's had in his eyes all morning, as if he can't—could never—get enough of this new drug, his new addiction.

That sight is what drives me over the edge.

* * *

Eventually, we do make it out of the shower, the apartment, and even the elevator; though the last only took longer for the time he spent showering kisses all down each side of my neck before making sure I knew exactly how much he loved me with a kiss that left me feeling dizzy and boneless.

But now, we're in public, and by unspoken agreement, it's all back to business.

'Trashcan' Carla's in town for trade, and she's who we're meeting up with for this trip; Nick, Charon and I intending to act as her caravan guards from here to Sanctuary.

It's past time I spent a week or so in Sanctuary, helping them get better set up. Despite being in one of the more out of the way sectors of the Commonwealth, it's still a hub of trade and commerce, and it's grown so much since I stumbled out of the Vault that I hardly recognized it the last time I visited, Mac and Preston in tow.

There's at least fifty people living there now; quite a few families with kids choosing to settle down and farm or produce things like clothing, medicinal chems, ammunition... the basic necessities of the wasteland. We're even starting to ship purified water to the various settlements, thanks to the four massive purifiers in the river that runs in front of the... well, I suppose it's a town now. _Or who knows, it might even be a city, by the time I get there._

The Red Rocket, where we'd be staying, has been turned into a forward defensive position on the exterior, but the inside—plus a few additional buildings that were slapped on to expand the place for guests and the like—is mine. Wasn't even my idea; the town demanded I have it, saying their General should have a place to stay that... well.

Their actual words were, 'a place to stay with no bad memories.'

I have to think it was Mama Murphy that spearheaded that idea, seeing as she's one of the few people who had any idea there were actual bad memories attached to Sanctuary, before I got back there for the first time after getting my memories back.

That woman's insight was half the reason Sanctuary had turned into what it had, after all. It was her that I put in charge of the building crews, because she knew what people needed the most, and saw that what they needed is what they got.

It's strange, I kinda used to mistrust her because of the chem use, but somewhere along the line, I forgot to let that bother me so much, especially when I saw the great talent she had for supplying the right thing for those who needed it, given the resources.

I'm not really sure why that changed.

Thinking about it makes my brain itch again, so I give up, not wanting to stir up any wasp nests that might be hanging about up there.

* * *

"About time you got out here, it's almost noon. We'll be lucky to hit the Red Rocket before sundown with Mincy's leg like it is." Carla gestures back to her pack brahmin, who chews a cud with one head and stares at me with the other, then moos mournfully, as if I insulted its other head.

I glance down at the four legs, scanning over them for any further abnormalities than I usually see on a brahmin's legs, but come up blank. Unless the scabs above its hooves are any different than the scabs on its ears, I don't really see the problem. I focus on Carla with an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, Carla. We can head out when you're ready. Oh," I gesture to Charon, where he looms on my right, "this is Charon, he'll be joining us from now on."

Her sharp, bloodshot eyes rake up the titan of a ghoul at my side, lifting a single brow at him and pursing her lips. "Hm. Looks sturdy enough, but he'll probably draw attention. What happened to the Mayor? Doesn't he usually do these trips? He wears that damn red coat, but at least he's not a giant."

Nicky comes to the rescue with a tactful, "He's got mayoral duties to attend to this round, Carla. You'll have to make do with us this time."

Carla shrugs, clearly caring less than she'd initially let on. "Whatever. Let's get going, Preston's been askin' for these fusion cells for two weeks now. Sick a' hearin' 'im harp about it."

* * *

It's a fairly peaceful trip to Sanctuary, all told.

Oh, sure, we get the bugs, the dogs, and a few feral ghoul packs along the way, but the mutants and raiders seem to be taking a break from the main paths.

Or the Minutemen cleared them out.

Either way, we do indeed make it there before sunset, and usher Carla and Mincy across the newly repaired bridge and through the main gate with all due haste.

Preston comes to the gate to meet us, waving from the low guard tower on the right, laser musket cradled lovingly in the crook of his lowered arm. "Welcome home, General! Good to see you, Carla, Mama Murphy's been waiting for you at The Trading Post. Welcome back to Sanctuary, Mister Valentine."

I hook a thumb at Charon. "Think you met Charon during the Castle assault, but just in case, Charon, Preston Garvey; my second in command in the Minutemen. Preston, Charon."

Preston touches his fingers to the brim of his hat in polite greeting. "I did see him there, but was never introduced. Good to meet you, sir."

Charon narrows his eyes slightly at the 'sir' honorific, but nods his own version of a polite greeting at the Minuteman.

I elbow him—his hip, actually, since I can't comfortably reach his ribs; and it's only very, very gently, more of a nudge, really—and he sighs, tacking on with a muttered grumble, "And you."

I grin at him, my reward for his cooperation. It's like pulling teeth, but it's getting there.

Preston apparently hears and nods, refocusing his attention on me. "Three new families since you were here last, and a few drifters. Sturges put the drifters to work on the purifiers, and one of the family's patriarchs swears up and down he knows how to jerry rig a water heater big enough to handle the showers." He looks to Nick. "If you could help him out with any wrench-turning you can contribute, we'd be grateful."

Nick shifts a bit uncomfortably. "Afraid I don't know much about water heaters, but I'll give it my best shot."

"I do," comes the unexpected offer from Charon.

We all turn to him, varying levels of surprise masking our features.

Preston recovers first, his enthusiasm more than enough to cover for his moment of surprise. "Great! We'll take all the help we can get. Cold showers are getting old, quick, especially in these winter months. Whatever expertise you have for anything that's needed, we'd be happy to have. We'll be glad to supply anything you need too, as long as we have it. Have you met Sturges before? He's our quartermaster and head engineer." He steps down the ladder of the tower, hopping off the last rung and waving Charon on. "Come on, I'll introduce you and get you settled in."

Charon peers down at me, seeking instructions. I smile up at him and nod toward Preston. "Go ahead, he'll lead you right. I'll be safe here, and Nick's with me."

He glances over at Nick, the glance turning into a stern glare for a moment, until Nick nods reassuringly. Charon huffs and looks back to me. "As you wish."

I watch as he squares his shoulders and marches off after Preston like a ghoul on a mission. I turn back to Nick with a quiet smirk, which he returns.

"Doesn't seem like the big guy likes bein' separated from you."

I shrug, looking over to watch as Preston and Charon round the corner to Sturges' Garage. "He's a kindred spirit, that's all."

When I look back, Nick's wearing a skeptical expression, which mellows with a sigh and his own shrug after a few seconds.

"To love is easy, and therefore common. But to understand, how rare it is," he quotes, watching the spot where Charon had disappeared from only seconds ago for a long moment, then turning his gaze upon me, his eyes thoughtful, and gently searching.

I smile at him, nodding once, then hook my hand around his elbow, taking a breath as he obligingly starts to lead me into town. "I'd say that's partially accurate. It is rare to understand, certainly, but I think the kind of love referenced there is... petty love. 'Oh, I love this gun,' 'oh, this weather's simply delightful, don't you love it?' that kind of thing. Real love, the timeless kind of love that takes over your entire existence?"

I shake my head, with a sureness in the motion that will brook no argument on the subject.

"That's not common at all."


	16. Chapter 16

The soft hiss of the stimpak sounds from behind me, the now-familiar pinch at the nape of my neck tensing the muscles there defensively, until I force them to relax.

I glance back at Charon after he removes the needle, the half-smile I slap onto my lips for him less strained than it has been all week.

My week of healing is finished, and I'm more appreciative than ever for that, despite the fact that we'll be leaving the hot showers behind.

Turns out, Charon has... well, a _lot_ of technical schematics lasered into his skull. Not all of them actually have much military use, even. Beyond the ones obviously tailored for combat, he'd listed water heaters, complete air conditioning, and heating systems, leak-proof plumbing, sewage processing... on and on he'd gone, ticking off the things he knew how to build, given proper tools and materials.

Nick has developed a theory that Charon was either a handyman or an engineer of some sort, before his conditioning. Neither of us has tried to ask.

Regardless, Sanctuary, as lovely a community as it is becoming, is not home, nor will it ever be.

Not for me, at least. Not for Nick. I'll never be the one to put words in Charon's mouth—not anymore, at least—but I get the sense that he agrees.

We're joining Deirdre on her route back to the Slog, then cutting across to head back home, after I check in with Wiseman and Arlen. I've been toting that holotape from his daughter and those spare Giddyup Buttercup parts he wanted in my bag for so long, I've half accepted them as just a part of my backpack.

It's past time to make good on that delivery.

* * *

"That was a kind thing you did for Arlen. I really think he needed that, more than he realized."

Wiseman stands next to me, watching as Arlen Glass pieces the yellow toy pony together with something approaching reverence, tiny sprockets and gears slotting into place precisely under the guidance of his surprisingly nimble fingers.

"It was overdue, I think," I murmur softly, hugging myself against the chill of the evening air. "Nobody should be without the comfort of their family, or the solace that their work brings, especially not as long as he's gone without." I smile over at the aged ghoul, rubbing my eyes a bit as irritation from my earlier waterworks at watching Arlen react to the holotape's contents rears its head. "I'm glad to see him like this."

Wiseman smiles over at me and nods. "Yeah, it's nice to see, for once. So, you're headed to Goodneighbor, yeah? Any idea when you'll be heading back? We could use some extra medical supplies, and I sure wouldn't say no to a drink with the Mayor again. He's got good taste in whiskey."

I can feel my cheek twitch once, twice as I try to force the smile onto my face. "Yes, we'll be headed there now, unless you've got anything for us. As for a return, I couldn't say if it'd be from there, but I will be back around soon. We should set up some proper trade between us; I know I'd love to have an alternative to mutfruit jam, and if Holly's willing to send some jars of her tarberry preserves off, I imagine there will be more than a few chemists in Goodneighbor willing to give equal trade. Especially when they realize it's from the Slog."

His brows lift in intrigue. "Y'think? Hmm. I didn't think the Mayor's office was interested in trade. Last I heard it wasn't, anyway. But if you say it's good, then I'm certainly open to it. I'll talk to Holly, see what I can work out on my end; you talk to Mayor Hancock and work something out on your end?"

I swallow but nod. "Sure. Sounds like a plan. I'll let you know what happens when I swing back by. You guys need anything else while I'm here? Scrap, food, water, anything?"

Wiseman chuckles, shaking his head once. "We're fine, Miss Stewart. You've spent enough time on this place, people are gonna start to suspect you're pro-ghoul or something."

I blink owlishly at him. "I _am_ pro-ghoul, Wiseman. Don't let anyone tell you different. I'm people, you're people," I gesture to Nicky, over where he's tinkering with a turret that's smoking more than it should be, "he's people, and anyone that says any single one of us isn't a person can fuck right off in my books."

His brows arch over surprised eyes and a wide grin. "Well damn, that's good to hear. Had a Brotherhood patrol come through not long ago, and we were lucky Candice," he flicks a finger toward the lone human working the tarberry bog, a blond woman in her mid-thirties, "was around to call 'em off and tell 'em we weren't feral. Then they had the audacity to demand a 'protection tax'. Left with half our crop."

I stare at him disbelievingly. "What."

He graces me with a single nod. "Yeah, if not for the shipment from Sanctuary we were gonna have a hell of a time keepin' everyone fed this winter. It's a shame we don't have the resources to fight those Steel bastards off."

I tilt my head, smiling brightly up at Wiseman. "I'll _get_ you the resources, Wiseman." I turn to Charon. "Charon, do you know how to build a turret that will cause maximum damage to an individual, with as little collateral damage as possible? Something precise with a high damage output would be nice."

Charon considers my question for a few seconds, before nodding. "Heavy laser turrets. Unlikely to hit friendlies or property if properly programmed and calibrated. Exceptional damage. Expensive to produce."

I shake my head. "Cost or resources aren't an issue. There's a reason I pick up _everything,_ after all. I'll get you whatever you need to make... oh, a dozen of them or so. That doable?"

Charon nods sharply. "They will require electricity to run. It may be prudent to set up a functional, preemptive network, in the meantime."

I return his nod. "Alright, sounds good. I'll set Nicky on that, so work with him on what should go where. Give me a list of what you need as soon as you can. I want these guys protected from the Brotherhood of Shitheads A.S.A.P."

"As you wish."

* * *

The two-week delay getting back to Goodneighbor was... well, it was nice, honestly.

I finally got Wiseman to just call me Shana, after he ended up repeating 'Miss Stewart' ad nauseam, whilst attempting to get my attention.

Now, everyone here calls me Shana; except Charon, who still insists upon 'Mistress', no matter how much it grates me.

Honestly, I think he does it to irritate me, now.

He gets this insufferable little smirk every time I don't manage to silence my groan when he addresses me as Mistress, and I've honestly never wanted to smack him more than the first time I saw that damned smirk.

He wears Mac's hat nigh-daily now; I think he might've actually become attached to it, despite it looking utterly silly on him.

He's also gotten slightly... well, _cheeky_ is the only way I can really describe it. It's not overt—hell, I don't think anything about Charon but his size and the amount of violence he can dispense has ever been overt—by any means, but I've caught him teasing—actually _teasing—_ me three times as we worked together on getting the Slog into a state fit to fight off a too-greedy Brotherhood of Tin Cans patrol, if necessary.

Frustrating as it is in the moment, looking back on his subtle teasing, it's... well, kind of adorably hilarious, really.

He's bending all the rules, lately.

Maybe he's just finally settling into his place in our pack? Be nice if that were the case, but I'm keeping an eye on things. No telling what could come of it.

Anyway, eventually, I'm going to have to speak to this... Elder Maxson character, who has apparently become the king of the Babies with Shitty Diapers, and also apparently holds court up in the massive floating turd in the sky over the airport.

I might even wear a hazmat suit, just to emphasize how very few bigotry germs I wish to pick up while I'm there.

Then burn said suit, when I leave.

I think I'll bring Charon and Nicky with me, just to spit in the Bitches of Aluminums' eye that much harder. Those two would rip the Babyhood a new one, if they tried to bully them with their bigotry, I have no doubt.

Point is, Maxson _will_ learn not to fuck with my people by the end of it all.

That's really all I want.

* * *

It's with an exhausted shove that I push open the 'gate' of Goodneighbor, Charon striding in right after me, Nick after him.

Nick and I exchange a look and clasp hands quietly as we head back for The Memory Den.

We'd decided before we even left the Slog: no more delays.

This is it.

It's time to find my nephew.

It's time to hunt down the Institute.

* * *

" _At least we've still got the backup."_

I sneer down at the despicable creep whom I'd just witnessed killing my brother for the second time, and already, Amari's sounding nervous about leaving me in here.

But I persevere.

We reach the last memory from Kellogg's hippocampus—at least, that's what Amari'd called it —and we discover the Institute's dirty secrets.

I'm more than ready to get the fuck out of there, and I almost do, but I turn, and there's another memory I can see, in a room that looks... oddly familiar, at the end of a new connection.

It's...

It's _my apartment_.

"Is that...?" Amari asks, her omnipotent voice floating somewhere beside my left ear.

I nod somewhat absently. "Yeah. And that... Oh."

"Oh, my. I'll just turn off my visual feeds, then," she says, in a tone that tells me she's speaking to Nicky.

"Doctor, what is this? I don't remember this."

She replies, "I believe it is Nicholas' memory, though he seems to think it may be... something you need to see, General. I recommend you explore it. Simply call for me, when you're ready to leave."

Well, who am I to disobey my Doctor's orders?

I follow the path and watch from Nicky's perspective, as I emerge from the elevator into my apartment...

And my hand's entwined with John's.

I look... oh god, I look _so_ nervous.

Despite my nerves, I step forward, returning Nick's greeting, and the scene slowly unfolds before me, just as it...

 _Just as it originally occurred._

Just as they both take care of me.

Just as Nick sits back and watches with an intensity that I can actually place now.

Just as I actually _beg_ for John to...

 _Christ, how had I forgotten this?_

I sit on the bed and look between John and I as he finishes, crying my name for all he's worth, and the _adoration_ that radiates from him as he looks back down at me is too obvious to ignore, but it's not until I turn down to see it mirrored perfectly on my own face that it finally _clicks._

Amari was right, to a point.

It _is_ much easier to process the influx of memories from one person, in comparison to my entire life's worth.

But to say it's _easy,_ well... that would just be a flat-out lie.

* * *

"John. _John!"_

"Shit, Mozzy, get the kit!"

"Are you fuckin' serious? She _just got back_ and he's still—"

" _Get the goddamn kit, Mozzy!"_

"Fuck, alright! Hang on!"

He rushes to John's room, snagging one of the kits they keep around, just for instances like this, and quickly returns it to Fahrenheit, where she hovers worriedly over the passed out form of her father.

"Here. Shit, has he even eaten anything to counteract—"

"Don't think so." She doesn't say anything else as she quickly unrolls the kit and systematically jabs the Mayor with one needle after the other, trying to rouse him from his current state.

"Fuck. This ain't good, Jess."

"I fuckin' _know_ it ain't, Mossman! Just help me roll him over, _fuck!_ " She sets the now-empty kit on the table—which is littered with mostly empty syringes and inhalers that they both know were all full and brand new three weeks ago—and reaches for her father with careful, trembling hands.

He helps, rolling one of his oldest friends out of the puddle of bloody vomit underneath him, settling him into a shock recovery position, since CPR isn't needed. Yet. "Gotta get some fluids and food in him, Jess. He ain't gonna last long like this without it."

"Can't _believe_ he's fucking done this shit again." She shakes her head, grinding her molars bitterly. "I _thought_ he was happy. I thought... I should've fuckin' _known_ he was fulla shit with all that love bullshit. Just another goddamn way to run away."

"I wouldn't rule it out so quick, Jess. He _does_ love that woman, we can all see it. Dunno what the fuck happened, but _somethin'_ went wrong for all this shit," he gestures to the prone John Hancock, "t'happen. Let's focus on gettin' him on his feet, then we'll worry about him n' the General." He claps a gentle hand on her arm, squeezing reassuringly. "One thing at a time, alright?"

She only has eyes for her father as she covers Mozzy's hand with her own and slowly, almost reluctantly, nods. "Yeah, yeah. One thing at a time."

Mozzy sighs and turns his attention down to John, eyes raking over his friend's sunken features with a grimace.

He gives Fahr's arm one last squeeze and stands, knowing she's got this handled for now.

He's got a General to find.


	17. Chapter 17

Pocketing a now half-empty vial of med-x, Mozzy sighs as chemical relief floods into his right knee, drowning out a multitude of physical protests which finally let him think without distraction.

He'd known something had happened with John weeks ago, but he hadn't been able to pry anything out of him at the time. The Mayor could be a stubborn ghoul on his best day, and the things he should most definitely share and get off his chest were routinely kept to himself, bottled tightly and hidden in a dark corner where none could find them.

It'd been the same before they took Vic down.

John was always quiet about his problems. It took a lot of trust on his part to finally open up. Too much, some would say. It'd taken six months of helping the kid survive on the streets of Goodneighbor, for him to finally count Mozzy as a friend; another four helping him become the leader Mozzy knew John could be, while they were all out in the ruins preparing, to finally become a trusted ally.

For John to go down the gutter like this, as quickly as he has... something big... something _bad_ had happened.

He's going to find out what it was.

The latest gossip on the General's whereabouts pins her as holding up in the Memory Den, with Nicky and her oversized shadow, Charon; so, he goes there first.

He tips his bowler to Irma, politely inquiring after the General as he does so. "Miss Irma. Know where the General might be hiding? I need to retrieve her, there's been a... situation. Need the Doc too."

Irma frowns in obvious concern, tapping her cigarette ash into the tray on the arm of her lounge. "Oh, my! Well, they're all downstairs deary, though I do believe they're in the middle of a session. Can it wait?"

He solemnly shakes his head. "No ma'am, afraid it can't. Thanks for the info, you're a peach."

She waves him off, her worry—and likely a large portion of ravenous curiosity—creating a thin line in the middle of her brow. "Of course, dear. You'd best hurry if it's as important as you say."

He nods, tipping his hat again. "Yes, ma'am."

He steps past her little stage—one he'd actually seen used as it was originally meant to be many times before the world—and his skin—went to shit—and double-times it down the steps, turning the corner to enter the room, only to be halted dead in his tracks by a massive arm that just about clotheslines him.

"You will wait." Charon doesn't even bother looking at him, his eyes instead stuck on the woman who appears somehow smaller than her usual self as she lays tensely in the lounger to the left, hands clawed in a tight grip over the lounger's armrests.

Mozzy pries his eyes away from the unchanging sight, peering over to Nicky's relatively calm state in his own lounger, then to the good Doctor's disquieted form, where she hovers in front of the main terminal. He knows that stance of hers, he's seen it too many times not to recognize it. Trying to get information from her right now would prove impossible, and possibly even disastrous to her patients, so he doesn't dare try. Instead, with a slight grimace, he turns to the giant, who is still rudely blocking his way. "Alright, fine, I'll wait. Any idea how long it'll be? There's an emergency we need the Doc for. The General too, if she's in a fit state."

Charon turns his head and just about glares Mozzy's eyes right out of his skull. "You will _wait_."

Mozzy tosses his hands up in surrender. "Alright, fine! Christ. I'll wait, I promise."

Charon humphs softly, then quickly returns his gaze to the General, watching over her like some stone golem from the old fairy tales. Apparently satisfied with Mozzy's answer, he deigns to lower his arm, only to cross it with the other over his chest, cutting an even more imposing figure against the wall.

Mozzy slides into the room, resting his back against the wall on the other side of the door and settling in to wait, occasionally side-eying the creepy giant warily.

It doesn't take long for shit to start happening.

Nicky wakes from the memory trance first, dazedly staggering from the egg-shaped lounger and bracing a hand against the wall he stumbles over to. He doesn't seem in any state to converse intelligibly with, so Mozzy sweats it out with everyone else for the General to wake.

She does, a few long moments later, hurdling out of the lounger Dr. Amari had thankfully already lifted the lid to, moments before the General woke; the woman who leads most of the Commonwealth searching the room with frantic eyes, almost feral in her desperation. Her voice is soft, quiet, merely a choked whisper that only those with keen hearing—most of the room's occupants, really—would pick up on when she finally gives voice to the subject of her distress...

 _"John?"_

Mozzy grimaces, disassociating himself from the wall and speaking up, "He can't answer ya, General. John's overdosed himself. That's why I'm here." He looks over at Amari, as she tries to help the General orient and calm herself. "We need your services, Doc. He needs fluids and... he didn't wake up after the kit. He's breathin', but that's about it."

To her credit, Amari's laser focus snaps to him and stays there. "He didn't eat or drink? Nothing to mitigate—"

Mozzy shakes his head sharply. "Nothing, far as I'm aware. Just like his old wild tears, all over again. Don't know what triggered it this time, he wouldn't talk to anyone. Started about three weeks back, but we figured he'd come down on his own. He didn't."

The General crosses the room to him with steps that seem longer than her legs are capable of. "I know what triggered it. It's my fault."

Charon tries to object, "Mistress, it was _not_ —"

The General slashes her hand through the air between them, looking up to her guardian with eyes darkened by grim determination. " _No,_ Charon. Maybe it's not my fault I forgot, but it _is_ my fault I wasn't more sensitive to what he was going through. Yes, so he fucked us over _once_ , but _fuck_ , he had to've been going through _so much shit_..." She looks to be on the verge of tears. " _Fuck,_ Charon, what have I _done?"_

The giant shakes his head. "Nothing more or less than any other might've, in the same circumstances. You cannot blame yourself for his actions. It will not help you, or anyone else. Including him."

General Stewart seems to ponder his answer for a moment, then slowly rests a hand on her golem's cheek, a grateful smile tugging at her lips. "What would I do without you?"

Charon shrugs, answering dryly, "Likely be stabbed in your sleep, or at the very least deeply scarred by mirelurk acid."

She chuckles softly, nodding as she gently lowers her hand. "Probably." She turns to look back at Amari. "Are you ready to go, Doctor?"

The doctor nods. "Nearly. I just need to grab some more supplies." She pauses, holding a hand up to the General. "I know you will want to help, but please stay out of the way unless your help is requested, Gen... Shana. It is critical that I have unimpeded access to my patient, no matter who he is to you."

After a moment of hesitation, General Stewart nods. "Of course, Doctor. But don't hesitate to put me to work. I'll do anything to help."

The doctor merely dips her head in acknowledgment before continuing to pack whatever items she deems necessary into a large bag. "I'm well aware, General. Believe me, I'm not one to ignore a helping hand," Amari looks over, pinning the General with a pointed look, "so long as it listens and follows instructions."

The General bows her head. "As you say, Doctor." She directs her attention to Nicky, who's taken to leaning against the wall more easily, now that he's ostensibly recovered from whatever ordeal they'd endured in the lounger.

She lifts her hands and starts... oh. She's _signing_ to him. How... quaint. The detective replies in kind, the interaction apparently a common one for them, as neither Amari nor Charon seem the least bit surprised to see it. Mozzy hadn't seen such an exchange in... well, since before the war, really. Not many deaf people survive long these days, even in places like Goodneighbor and Diamond City.

He'd heard some things about the General bein' a woman out of time, but to see such blatant evidence of it is a bit jarring. What a strange bird John's shacked up with.

He only hopes she doesn't break his old friend's heart if he survives.

* * *

 _Ahh, the joys of a pack of pristine, freshly opened smokes. Is there anything quite like it?_

 _Well_ , he supposes, as he draws the slightly stale smoke into his thirsty lungs, _there's sex, but he's not exactly having a terribly copious amount of that nowadays._

Holding up the wall between Kill or be Killed and Daisy's Discounts, Deacon does a very good job of appearing like he's not keenly watching as the Mayor's second steps out onto the stoop of the State House, looking far worse for wear than he's seen her in some time. She immediately strikes a match, lighting up her own smoke, which she holds with a hand that trembles for only a moment before she forcibly stills it, taking a slow, careful, smoke-filled breath.

Ahh, the good old steadying effects of nicotine. Odd that she came outside to experience them, though. It's rare he sees her exit the administrative offices of Goodneighbor's Mayoral building unless she's actually on a Mayoral mission of some sort. He could be wrong, but that doesn't seem to be the case, here.

That thought is confirmed when Fahrenheit's attention snaps to something down the alley that's beyond of his field of view, the alley soon vomiting out a veritable cornucopia of high profile people.

"Where the fuck does she," Fahrenheit jabs her smoke at General Stewart, even as she stares at her second, Mozzy, "think she's going? You let her come along, Mossman? The fuck were you thinking?" Fahrenheit nods at Doc Amari, stepping politely aside to let the doctor slide on by, then returns her attention to the rest of the small crowd. "Nicky can go up, but this bitch stays, unless you," she again pins her gaze on Mozzy, "can give me a damn good reason to let her in."

"The fuck did all this animosity come from all of a sudden, Fahr?" Mozzy asks, his confusion obvious. "I get you're pissed, but John would want her here every bit as much as he'd want Nicky, for fuck's sake. Why you givin' him a free pass, and not her?"

Fahrenheit again jabs her smoke at someone, a rather fresh-looking Nick valentine, this time. "Nicky didn't fucking _forget_ him, Mozzy."

Mozzy frowns, taken aback. " _Forget_ him? What?" he looks back at General Stewart and Mr. Valentine, seeking confirmation.

It comes from a surprisingly unlikely source, someone Deacon wasn't even sure _could_ speak.

"She is not to blame for her lapse in memory, and has suffered as much as anyone in this situation for her injury." The huge ghoul's voice is grave with guilt and resolve. "If you wish to lay fault at the feet of anyone present, let it be me, for not protecting her adequately. She would never have forgotten him, had I performed my function properly."

General Stewart turns and sharply shakes her head at her strangely protective and subservient ghoul gargantuan, laying a hand on his arm. "No, Charon." Interesting name. Oddly _familiar,_ actually, though he's having trouble pinning down why. Must be old info. "There was no way in hell you could've changed what happened. You tried, John tried. It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault." She lets her hand drop to her side and wheels to face Fahrenheit. "Yes, I forgot him. The fact that you know that tells me he's awake, and that he told you exactly what set him off. Yes, it's in part my fault, and I aim to fix it if you'll let me. In the meantime, I'd like to be there to take care of my man, if you please."

Fahrenheit narrows her eyes to slits, peering out from between her lids at every individual in the small huddle, evaluating them with a steely glare. She draws from her cancer stick and blows smoke in the General's face, then jerks her head towards the door. "Fine. But if you break his heart, I'll _actually_ break yours. In half."

"It would be wise to avoid attempting that," provides the overly large ferryman.

Fahrenheit directs her flinty glare up at him, not an ounce of fear in her face. "It would be _wise_ to avoid pissing me off."

The General again rests a hand on her ghoul's—and he's definitely _hers;_ every ounce of their current body language screams out a strange form of symbiosis that Deacon can't quite wrap his head around—arm, squeezing gently. "Enough. I'm here to make peace, not start new wars."

When she faces Fahrenheit again, both women square off in a mutual evaluation.

After a few long seconds, Fahrenheit finally nods, flinging her mostly finished smoke into a nearby puddle before turning and opening the door, leading the way into the Old State House.

What he wouldn't give to be a fly on one of those dingy walls, just to watch all that delicious drama pan out.

* * *

The large wet spot on the rug where I'd scrubbed his vomit out of it as best I could—with what little Abraxo was on-hand at the time—is now nearly dry, all these hours later. Wasn't in time to keep the blood from staining, though.

John's sleeping fitfully; has been since I arrived. Apparently, his moment of lucid wakefulness ended before Fahr went out for her smoke.

Amari occasionally pops in to check on him, but she has other patients to attend to, and she's done all she possibly can, at this point. John's on a slow drip of fluids and nutrients, according to the doctor, and it's the most anyone can do until he properly wakes up.

There's a row of addictol inhalers sitting on his side of the now otherwise mostly cleared table; the few packs of cigarettes and two ashtrays the only other interruptions to the unusually empty space.

It's all I can do to sit still, as I stare down at one of the men I love.

 _The one I abandoned._

Oh, I know, it's not entirely realistic or even appropriate for me to beat myself up for it all. But it's still there, tugging at the edges of my soul, like a bad bout of survivor's guilt.

So, I sit on the table at his side, holding his hand, waiting.

Nicky had stood watch for a while, but even he eventually settled onto the tan couch on the opposite end from where Fahr had taken up residence. Even she has since left, to take care of some Mayoral business she couldn't put off any longer. Mozzy's keeping watch, just inside the door, Charon mirroring him on the other side.

It's been tensely quiet for hours, so when a voice which does not belong to any actual occupants of the room pierces that silence, all of our heads whip 'round to stare at its source.

"You keep strangely powerful company, oh General Stewart. I really doubt Shaun would approve." Nicky's eyes glint with a bitterly jocular light that does _not_ belong to him, and never has. "Do hope you got what you were lookin' for inside my head. Hehe. I was right; I should've killed you when you were on ice."

I scramble off the table, as the wretched talons of angered fear rip their way into my chest, turning hastily to face the other man I love, who is apparently _possessed_ by the one person besides Bart whom I've ever really _hated_.

Charon is at my side much more quickly than I would've thought possible for a man of his size, though he seems uncertain how to protect me from a threat none of us saw coming.

It seems impossible, but the expression on Nick's face has changed from something mocking to something extremely confused as he takes us in. "The hell you all starin' at all of a sudden? There someone' behind me?" He glances behind him skeptically, then turns that look on us, peering worriedly up at both of us. "Say, what's the big idea?"

I look to Charon, still beyond stunned and more than a little bit in shock. "Ch-Charon, t-tell me I'm n-not crazy. D-did he j-just—"

He nods sharply, his eyes wide and searching Nick's, still clearly on uncertain footing here. "Yes."

I swallow, the motion dry and a bit painful, as I shift my stare back to Nick. "N-Nicky?"

He's frowning now, eyes switching between Charon and me rapidly as he tries to suss out what's going on. "Care to fill me in? Anyone?" he tacks on, after a few seconds of silence from both of us.

I let my jaw loose in preparation to speak, finding the strength to do so in the solid, comforting support of Charon at my side. "Nicky s-something's wrong. Y-you just sp-poke like... like _K-Kellogg_ was s-speaking _through_ you."

He blinks at me, shocked, then recovers and scowls down at the table. "Damn. Amari said there might be some mnemonic impressions left over from diggin' around in the old merc's head, but I didn't think it'd come out like _this_." He looks back up at me, remorse and hesitation in his gaze. "Are you... d'you want me to leave, go talk to Amari, see if I can get this looked at?"

I consider his offer for a moment, nodding soon after. "I think that w-would be best. That b-bastard doesn't deserve the satisfaction of haunting us from beyond the f-fucking grave." I hesitate, but force myself to move around the coffee table, unsteady knees almost giving out twice on the way there, my terror still more than present in every nerve no matter how hard I'm trying to shove it away, tamp it down for this. I lean down and press my lips to Nick's because I _don't_ want him to think I blame _him_ for this, or something equally ridiculous. "I love you. Now g-go exorcise th-the bastard."

He presses a second kiss to my lips, then stands, nodding. "I will. I love you too." Another soft kiss he leaves on my brow, then swivels and heads from the room with all haste.

I return to Charon's side slowly, sinking onto the couch's edge and settling John's hand in my lap, one hand settling over his, the other reaching for Charon as I look up to him. "C-can you go with him, p-please? I'm safe here, I promise." I rub gentle circles into his inner wrist as I plead with him, watching as he debates with himself internally, then weighs his decision against the request in my eyes.

He glances over at Mozzy, then centers back on me and gently captures my soothing fingers in his own, giving them an oh-so-carefully metered squeeze. "As you wish, Mistress." Another squeeze follows before he releases me and rounds the table, leaving quickly to catch up with Nicky, only pausing once by the door to murmur something to Mozzy. The Watchghoul nods and Charon departs, closing the door quietly behind him.

I sigh, letting my shoulders sag with the weight of everything that rests on them in this moment, setting my fingers to the task of gingerly massaging John's hand; rubbing circles in his wrist now, and slowly making my way over his palm, to his fingers, their tips, then starting all over again.

"You inspire one hell of a strange kind of loyalty, doncha?"

I blink owlishly over at Mozzy, startled by his odd... is it a question, or an observation? "I... well, I suppose, in a way. It's not intentional."

Mozzy snorts. "Obviously. It's just the way you are. Same way John fell into your orbit so easy, even when nobody else could get him to settle down—not even the mother of his kid." Mozzy crosses his arms over his chest, almost hugging himself as he watches me with keen eyes. "But you're special somehow, ain'tcha? Doubt they even notice there's somethin' outta place there, they just know they wanna stay near it like you're their own personal sun or some shit."

I frown down at John's hand, still working at it gingerly. "...Maybe you're right. John calls me sunshine. Ham thinks there's somethin' wild in me, somethin' he doesn't trust. Wouldn't be more specific than that. Everyone else just..." I shrug. "I dunno. It's not like I _try_ to get anyone to follow me or anything." I stare over at the now slightly disturbed row of addictol on the table. "Well, aside from Mac, I suppose. But he paid me back what I initially paid him ages ago."

Mozzy nods languidly. "I'd say Ham's got the right of it, though I dunno if I'd say it's necessarily an untrustworthy thing in ya, just..." he falls silent for several long seconds. "I dunno. You're ah... well, an anachronism covers some of it. Though, I don't think that covers all of it. I think even before the world went to hell, you'd've been somethin' t'see."

I smirk softly, returning my gaze to John's face. "The juries I used to convince seemed to think so."

"Ah, shit. You were a fuckin' lawyer?"

I chuckle and grin up at Mozzy, nodding once. "Sure was. Criminal defense attorney Shana Stewart, at your service. Though, my understanding of the current judicial system is: 'are they trying to kill me or my people? Or, am I being paid for this shit? Or, do these assholes _really_ deserve to die? Yes? Then they die'. So, not so sure I could actually be of much service. There aren't exactly official courts or judges anymore."

Mozzy groans, a hand sliding down his face from where it'd cradled his brow at my confirmation of his query. "You're a _fuckin' lawyer_. No wonder Ham doesn't like you. He hates lawyers. Surprised he didn't realize that's what you were right off the bat."

I shrug, smirking unabashedly. "I'm not a lawyer here. Not anymore. What I am now is adaptable. I'm a General to some, a lover to two, someone who just gets shit done and protects the innocent, to most."

"She's just a badass, Mozzy, leave it at that," comes a voice so weak that the sound curls in my gut and sits there like a rotting wrongness that turns everything around it into its own personal kind of cancer. I snap my attention down to John, where he looks up at me through exhausted, slitted eyes, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"John?" I curl one hand around his in my lap, the other reaching out to cup his face as delicately as I can.

His smile curves a little bigger as he lets his eyes drift fully closed, tiredly nuzzling into my hand. "M'here, sunshine." He peeks his eyes open just long enough to say, "S'good t'see ya." Within moments, he falls back into the warm embrace of slumber.

I don a fragile smile as I watch him sleep, slowly stroking his cheek. "You too, love."


	18. Chapter 18

_I'll be seeing you_  
 _In all the old familiar places_  
 _That this heart of mine embraces_  
 _All day through_

The radio plays music softly in the background, the peaceful backdrop creating a stark contrast to the scene before me.

It's been a hell of a few days.

 _In that small cafe_  
 _The park across the way_  
 _The children's carousel_  
 _The chestnut trees, the wishing well_

Gone are the intravenous drip bags, rubber tubes, and needles, replaced a day ago by blankets he can scarcely stand to have touch him, a damp rag compress which receives far fewer objections, and a vomit bucket _I_ am eternally grateful for.

 _I'll be seeing you_  
 _In every lovely summer's day_  
 _In everything that's light and gay_  
 _I'll always think of you that way_

He's been alternating between shivering and sweating for the past two days, despite the help on his road to recovery from the three now-empty addictol canisters, but he's become impossible to predict today, perspiring and trembling at the same time—groaning in a pain that I can't treat him for, because damn him, most of his 'chem cocktails' had included med-x, and his body simply can't handle any more right now.

 _I'll find you in the morning sun_  
 _And when the night is new_  
 _I'll be looking at the moon_  
 _But I'll be seeing you_

He's asked me to leave a few times— _begged_ me to, even—saying I shouldn't have to see this, shouldn't have to take care of him when he's like this. Even Nicky told him I wouldn't be anywhere else, and that he should know better, but the response just seemed to make John even more irritably miserable.

 _I'll be seeing you_  
 _In every lovely summer's day_  
 _In everything that's light and gay_  
 _I'll always think of you that way_

I've stayed by his side, excepting the few hours yesterday when Charon had actually demanded—I couldn't believe it, but he absolutely _refused_ to back down, to Nicky's mild amusement—that I sleep, and Nicky took over for me more than willingly as I had a nap on the tan couch with a pillow and blanket dragged out for me to use, the only compromise to sleeping on an actual bed Charon would accept.

 _I'll find you in the morning sun_  
 _And when the night is new_  
 _I'll be looking at the moon_  
 _But I'll be seeing you_

It's not the first time I've seen or even assisted in nursing someone through these exact same symptoms before, it's just the first time I've had so few resources to actually _help_ the sufferer with.

Nate had come back from the front lines with more than just the head trauma that'd rendered him deaf; he'd also arrived at the VA hospital with a severe psycho addiction. Fortunately, there'd been a lot more medicine and medical personnel to hand back then, and his recovery from addiction, while slow, was not nearly as physically strenuous as John's is proving to be. The hardest part had been having patience with getting him home, and changing his cold compress every half hour while we waited for him to sweat the psycho out. 'Modern medicine' and helpful nurses had taken care of the rest.

What a difference a few centuries and a nuclear holocaust make.

John's finally managed to fall asleep, despite his aching muscles, sweaty skin, and uncontrollable tremors. I rest the back of my hand gently against his cheek, trying to get a sense of his temperature; the last thing he needs to deal with on top of all this is a ghoul's usual temperature issues. But his skin, while clammy with sweat, is no cooler than my own, so I change his compress and stand, snagging my cigarette pack from the table and heading to the balcony with a tightly heaved sigh.

Nicky detaches himself from the corner he's taken to occupying—when he's not on the couch, or taking care of John—and saunters over to John's side, replacing me while I take a much-needed smoke break.

I offer him a grateful smile as he passes me.

It's... well, it's about the extent of our interactions over the past few days.

His visit to Amari, to 'exorcise Kellogg' had... not gone well. Despite a valiant effort on her part, the good doctor couldn't find anything on Nick's hard drives to eliminate. Even a scrub of his memory banks, restoring everything from the latest backup, taken right before the Kellogg memory dig, revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

It seems Kellogg is a literal ghost in the machine.

It's made things between us... stressed.

He doesn't want to risk hurting me if Kellogg were to take over, and I... I don't want to turn to him and see that horrible glint in his eyes again.

It's not good.

I _miss_ him.

But I'm also every bit as afraid as he is.

John's been sensing the tension between us, but I've kept quiet as to the reasoning behind it. Not fair to pile that on top of him while he's still recovering. After, when he's regained his strength, I'll... _we'll_ tell him, together.

I hope.

* * *

Charon watches in silence as his Mistress cares for her ghoul lover, doing everything she possibly can to keep him comfortable and improve his condition. While her nursemaid skills are fairly impressive to witness, it is the darkened circles under her eyes that concern him the most.

He knows that without intervention, she will work until her body forces her to sleep, if it means she has helped someone. He's seen it happen more often than he cares to admit, in the short months since she became the holder of his contract. It was the only reason he'd dared insist upon her slumber the previous day.

He simply couldn't stand to watch it happen again.

His trainers would've been horrified at his insubordination, not to mention this... _attachment_ he's developed to what still only amounts to a _slave owner_.

 _His_ owner.

Despite how little she resembles any slave owner he's ever met, it is still the truth of the matter.

Strangely, he does not find solace in the thought, where he normally does. There is usually a perverse comfort in the solid understanding of what he is, of what his employer is. But it is distinctly absent, here.

He rolls his shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the stone of discomfort that's settled between them now, but it does nothing to alleviate his malaise. A soft sigh of frustration issues from him, and when he sees her adjourning to the balcony, snatching her cigarettes along the way, he splits himself from the wall and joins her.

The terse exchange between her and her synth lover is another cause of friction in their general situation, and the uncertainty surrounding the mechanical man like a cloud of despair is suffocating.

It's a relief when they reach the terrace, the slightly fresher air reeking more of booze and piss than vomit, but it's still an improvement over the thick tension just behind the door.

He's belatedly reaching for the rumpled pack in his rolled up sleeve when she deftly lights two from her own and offers him both to choose from. He re-rolls what little he'd managed to unroll of his sleeve and plucks the closest coffin nail from her fingers, slipping the filter between his lips and dragging a satisfyingly thick cloud into his lungs as he picks at the sleeve, straightening it fastidiously.

The fussiness attracts her attention, and she leans back against the metal railing at the side of the balcony and beholds him; one arm crossed under her chest, the other elbow resting on its fist, cigarette lifted delicately to the side as she nibbles her lip distractedly, eyes slightly narrowed.

He pauses and looks her over searchingly, curious why she persists in her observation of him. It's not the first time she's simply watched him for an extended period before, nor would it be the first time she's left him with no explanation as to its cause, but he finds he does not wish to leave things as they lay, this time.

"Why do you watch me so?"

Her eyes snap to his, features blanching then coloring softly peach beneath the wasteland tan of her cheeks. Despite her fluster, her eyes stay to his, steadily and without hesitation. "Does it bother you?"

He breaks eyes contact and finishes straightening the folds of his sleeve, righting himself and taking another drag from his cigarette. "No. But it is unusual for my employers to take such interest, beyond any initial inspection. You seem to be stuck in a near-endless loop of that initial inspection."

She snorts and looks out over the edge of the rail, down at the currency exchange station, flicking the ash from the end of her cigarette absently. "Maybe I am," she murmurs, even his sharp hearing barely catching the hushed sound escaping her lips.

"Is there something you wish to speak to me about? Perhaps you need to alter a behavior or tactic of mine?" he offers, hoping the olive branch will get her to release her grip on her private thoughts for once.

Sharp eyes dart up to meet his, brows furrowed over them in obvious concern. "No, Charon; it's... you're fine. Why, do you want to change something?"

He taps his ash away and shakes his head. "Not unless you wish me to, Mistress."

She utters a heavy sigh and falls silent for a time, hardly even bothering with the lit smoke between her fingers. Eventually, she shakes her head and looks away, sucking one final drag down and flicking the cherried butt away from anyone below them. She flits a glance to his cigarette, but make no further move to leave, instead continuing to look him over, as if studying him to determine his life's worth.

She waits until he flings his own spent butt in the same direction she'd tossed hers before she stands from the railing and takes a single step toward him, eyes on his as she nears. She comes to a halt less than a foot from his shoulder, tilting her head back and to the side, resuming her study of him somewhat askew now, her expression deliberative, lips pursed slightly. "What do you want, Charon?"

He blinks at her, the unexpected question filtering through his mind perhaps a touch more slowly than it should, in his surprise. "...I wish to fulfill the terms of my contract, and the orders you give me."

She straightens, her expression closing off, gaze falling to his upper arm before she nods and vacates the terrace without another word.

He turns to look at the door as it slowly swings closed behind her, the definitive click of the latch seating into place seeming oddly final in the surrounding silence.

Had his answer displeased her somehow? What had prompted the query, to begin with?

 _Why does she so often stare at him, as if trying to solve a puzzle to which she is missing half the pieces?_

He follows her in, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior, then crossing the bedroom and stairwell over to the 'office'—if it could truly be called such—where the pair of mismatched couches and the V.I.P.'s of Goodneighbor are currently holding residence.

She looks up from her perch on the table's edge beside the Mayor's couch-turned-sickbed as he enters the room, her gaze still searching, but calmer now. She returns her attention to her ghoul lover, diligently changing the cold compress in the sleeping man's brow.

Charon resumes his station by the door, folding his arms across his chest and watching her keenly. It is now clear to him that he must be missing a key element in this situation.

He will make it his new mission to discover it, and put it to use.

* * *

Oh, _hell_.

Sometimes, he really wonders why he pulls this kind of shit.

Sure, great, he's got his wish. His woman's back and payin' more attention to him than he ever thought he'd want, to his embarrassment.

But he feels so shitty right now, he can't even enjoy it, really.

In some of his more lucid moments over the past few days, they've talked things over.

She remembers him. All of it. Every detail.

The relief he'd felt once she'd convinced him of that fact very nearly overwhelmed him.

He's happy as hell to have her back.

But there's something wrong, still.

And she's keepin' it all hush-hush.

He don't like it one fuckin' bit.

Top all that off with the fact that she's havin' t'see him like _this_ , all fucked and outta sorts, and he's just in a generally bad mood.

Not even his dreams are cooperating with lettin' him get some good sleep in.

He keeps seein' her dead. Or seein' the lack of recognition in her eyes again. Or watchin' someone else move in on his turf, seducin' her away from him, and he can't do shit to stop it.

It's all a fuckin' nightmare, no matter how ya slice it.

He'd rather be awake n' miserable than trapped in his head asleep right now, but his body don't seem to wanna agree with that opinion, so he keeps on dreamin' of losin' his sunshine.

Fahr was right.

Shana's the best way to hurt him, now.

He can't even try to deny it.


	19. Chapter 19

Three more days of watching her care for and fuss over the Mayor, all while avoiding the Detective, and even—to a point—him, has drawn him to a fine edge like few things can.

It bothers him how easily she manages to set him on that razor's edge; bothers him _so_ much, because he's absolutely _certain_ it would take frighteningly little for him to slip, and be cut in twain.

And he doesn't know what would become of either of them if he did.

Already he tires dangerously, the sleep pattern she's been forcing him into these past months now startlingly absent in her forgetfulness during this time of stress, when she herself cannot fathom sleep, even—no, _especially_ —for herself.

His past training means little, in the face of this current drought of rest, and she has no such conditioning to fall back on.

They are both in dire need of _actual_ sleep, not just an errant nap on the couch.

Besides, by Charon's estimation, the Mayor is nearly recovered. Another day at most, and he will be on the mend. He is awake and coherent. He's holding down irradiated water and most soft foods. He still trembles, but it seems more out of malnutrition and general weakness than any kind of detoxification, and the sweating has stopped entirely. He can sit up and even shakily stand without assistance and usually makes it to the bathroom in time, effectively negating the necessity of his Mistress' presence. Between Mozzy and the Detective, there will be more than enough of a warning system if something were to go wrong enough to require her presence, for any reason.

It is time.

Charon divorces himself from the wall at long last, his back cooling even in the stagnant air for the sweat that has gathered in his shirt between skin and plaster. Belatedly, the movement catches her attention, eyes that are usually bright and sharp now dulled and glassy from exhaustion, ringed in a darkness that surely none in the room can escape noticing. He approaches and peers down at her with his own tired gaze.

He takes a weary breath and addresses her firmly, "Mistress, you... we _both_ need rest. Mossman and Detective Valentine can serve as a warning system, should one be needed. You and I are adjourning to your apartment. I cannot guarantee your safety much past this point from my own protection without slumber to recharge, and your health will begin to decline if you do not sleep soon. I will brook no argument on the subject at this juncture. I _will_ carry you there, if necessary." He pauses, looking at her pleadingly. "Please don't make me carry you there."

His Mistress snorts at his last words and slumps with a sigh of mild defeat, though the wry smile tugging at her lips belies her downtrodden facade. She lifts her view to the Mayor, reaching out to slide her fingers across his brow and cup his cheek, the ghoul raising his own hand to cover hers as he rasps a quiet chuckle into the air.

"He's got you by the short hairs, sunshine. Don't think you'll find any of us disagreein' with him. You gotta rest sometime. Much as I'd love to keep ya around right now, you gotta go take care of _yourself_ for a while. I'll be fine, right here. Just go sleep, darlin'." The Mayor pats her hand and gives it a squeeze when he gently lowers it from his face to her lap, offering a tired smile and a wink before he draws his hand back to his own lap.

She nods softly and stands with another sigh, leaning down to press gentle kisses to her ghoul lover's face. She straightens and pauses, watching that middle space she so often goes to in the forest of her mind. Then after a moment she sharply turns, marches over to her synth lover and grabs him by the lapels, nearly slamming her lips into his in what can only be fierce determination, which clearly surprises the synth more than anyone else, as he now seems _incredibly_ uncertain what to do with his hands.

By the time her lips leave his, his hat is askew, his lapels and collar are crooked, and the synth is quite beside himself, utterly besotted and as mussed as a mechanical man can be. " _Damn_ , doll." His smile tugs one corner of his mouth up, one hand finally trailing its thumb softly over her cheek, as if he's afraid to touch her, but can't really help himself. He carefully chucks her chin with the same hand's outstretched forefinger, every inch of his body's language radiating his affection and love for her. "Right back at ya."

She smiles her satisfaction and gently pats his cheek, leaving one last peck on his mouth before cleaving herself from him and sauntering over to Charon, indicating for him to lead the way.

He arches a single brow, then turns and does just that, pondering deeper concepts than most would guess by looking at him along the way.

Watching her, as she passes by the Watch members, by the drifters, by the citizens of the town she is all but queen of, he yet again attempts to formulate his true opinion on who his employer really is. It's a vision that changes often, as time creeps on and he learns more of her, and he's come to realize that it changes because she is nothing, if not a woman with an ocean of depth to her soul.

His Mistress is a contradiction of kindnesses, wrapped in a layer of armor, riddled with ill-hidden vulnerabilities, and decorated prettily to distract from every ounce of it.

All while seeming to realize _none_ of this.

Not that she is ignorant of herself, by any means; no, the failure is a lack of conceptualization.

She simply doesn't see herself as others do.

She sees herself as something small, just someone trying to help make life better for as many as she can manage to help. She thinks herself a generally good person, but also occasionally—more frequently than not, she'll admit, after a few drinks—a monster. The level of violence she is capable of frightens her, almost as much as the level of love she feels every day. Such extremes send her running for the hills often, right to his arms, into the comfort she somehow garners from his steady presence.

And there is yet another layer to add to the complexity of what patterns come and weave themselves together to create the tapestry of his Mistress. The care she takes not to upset the balance of comfort between the two of them is _painstaking_. She treads _so_ softly with him, always considering his happiness or his comfort, but never entertaining the idea that her eggshell walking itself may bother him.

He knows it is unfair of him to expect her to realize it. It is learned behavior; a part of her own _training_ , for lack of a better word, after all.

She opens up to him more than she does to most, she'd confessed about a month ago, admitting that she didn't even know why she confided in him so easily; that she worried it was too much to put on someone who clearly had more than enough of his own history to deal with.

She'd told him of her past experiences, specifically what could cause her problems now, because of her post-traumatic stress issues. Because of the flashbacks. The dissociations.

He'd learned indirectly that it was her ex-husband, the one who beat her, to condition her to tread so carefully, and she uses it unconsciously now, in a few specific circumstances.

Why she uses it with _him_ , with the one person who would _never,_ literally _could_ never lay a violent fingernail on her, he's uncertain.

Add to all of this the last question she'd leveled at him, one he'd apparently had an unsatisfactory answer for:

' _What do you want, Charon?'_

What does he want?

What _does_ he want?

What does he _want?_

 _What does he want?_

 _...Does_ he want?

Beyond food in his belly, enough rest to stay alert, ammo, and a clean gun, he cannot claim to actually _want_ anything.

But she seems to think he _should._

What does he want?

He slides the key she's entrusted to him alone into the elevator lock and selects the upper floor once she steps inside the box. This close, their mutual lack of personal hygiene over the past week becomes apparent, even to his ruined nose, and he's quite grateful for the fact that a shower awaits them both within her apartment.

What does he want?

Well, he supposes, the comfort of cleanliness doesn't hurt. So, perhaps that could be added to the list, as a nicety.

And while he's considering niceties, the presence of his Mistress, despite her caution around him, is an unexpected comfort. He has noticed the bond they have formed utterly in spite of the contract, and it is... shocking, in its way. An odd symbiosis he is uncertain how to classify or quantify.

It is nothing like the bond he and Lynn had formed. That was an easy camaraderie, a battlefield bond, but it still existed well within the limits of his contract, and she'd respected that contract like it had been engraved on her own skull, instead of his.

His Mistress... _Shana_... has utterly _remade_ his contract, in an image he no longer truly recognizes. Oh, it still exists in its original form—she'd even kept the holotape version in a small wall safe, for some strange reason, along with a gold wedding band she slipped from her ring finger at the same time, setting it atop the tape; a memento, perhaps?—the words are still intact and every bit as binding as they ever have been. No, it is the _meaning_ of the words, or perhaps how they affect _her_ in particular, that has been inexorably altered. She is not _just_ his contract holder.

Not any longer.

What she _is_ , he has yet to grasp, but it is an ongoing effort on his part to finally take hold of it and properly identify it, label it, and understand it.

What does he want?

His entire life is in flux, cradled in the threaded fingers of his Mistress' hands, and he is uncertain of his own footing, of who he is becoming, of who she is molding him into. Of who she is molding _herself_ into.

Of how she feels like his shotgun slotting into place on his back, the warm steel heating his aching muscles comfortingly.

What does he want?

He's not sure, anymore.

* * *

Nicky takes a smoke break out on the balcony, and watches Charon and Shana walk side-by-side to the apartment he's no longer allowing himself to visit.

Not until this nightmare with Kellogg is over.

The old merc's taken to occasionally popping up in Nick's thoughts, hanging onto the tail ends of memories he plays, infesting them with his own memories, his own thoughts.

Kellogg seems to take endless pleasure in tormenting him, probably because it's the only trick he has left unless he flat-out takes over for a while.

It's almost better when he does, despite the creeping sensation of disgust that slides and winds its way up his metal spine, because at least then, he doesn't have to hear Kellogg in his head.

Like he does right now.

"How do you like being a literal Trojan horse, Nicky? Does it frighten you that I could take over at any moment and peel your little popsicle's face off with your own fingers?" A darkly amused chuckle invades the caverns of his mind for a moment. "Ah, but wouldn't the look on John's face when he saw you do it be worth it? Now that would be a pair of faces not even a mother could love. Hell, at least you'd all be a matching set, even if one was a little bloodier than usual. And probably dead."

That laugh fills his mind again and he groans, fingertips digging into his temples fiercely, as if he could somehow find relief from Kellogg, like he was just some phantom headache.

But no, this is not something he can solve on his own steam. And neither John nor Shana would ever forgive him if he just ate his own gun, much as he'd considered it a few times, just for some peace and quiet.

Hard way it is.

Whatever that ends up meaning.

* * *

Charon nudges me toward the shower, the moment we get into the apartment. I snort and nod understandingly, acquiescing easily. We _all_ need a shower after the week we've had. I'm sending him in here after, while I pass the fuck out for twelve hours or so.

Unless...

Shit.

He needs every bit as much sleep as I do.

Hmm. Maybe shifts? Or... well, it _is_ a huge bed meant for multiple people; we could probably both sleep on it all sprawled out and never even get within a foot of each other. It wouldn't be the first time we've slept in close proximity, though it's never been on the same set of bedding, _exactly_. Though he does tend to set up his bedroll near enough to mine to reach out and touch, if I need to wake him for something.

I decide to discuss it with him before he goes for a shower. Best to just get it out in the open, when it comes to concerns between us. Otherwise, we tend to endlessly pick things apart in silence until we come to some internal conclusion—usually the incorrect one—that has one or both of us spiraling into a tizzy of doubt or anger or annoyance... it's not pretty.

That's another thought—he's _definitely_ been thinking hard on _something_ for a few days, and I can't help but wonder what it is, exactly. It's distracted him, and while I generally don't worry about him being distracted where it concerns his ability to protect me, as he so often insists is still his function, it does worry me for the thought that it seems to actually be bothering him. Pile atop it all that I've caught him staring at me, eyes boring through me with either his far-off gaze of concentration or his active glare of speculation, lips pursed in thought so often that I'm actually wondering if he's upset with me, beyond just his worry for our sleep schedule.

I guess I should ask him about that, too.

I sigh, shuck my clothes off and toss them in the hamper, the open lid slapping closed on the leg of my pants with a dull thump. On goes the water, freezing cold at first, then eventually tapering off to a semi-tepid kind of warmth that borders on bearable enough. Turns out post-apocalyptic water heating systems not created by crafty contracted ghouls are... not so great.

Maybe I can get him to take a look at it after we're both clean and rested.

I pop a rad-x and scrub down thoroughly, adding what soap suds I can stand to spend on it all to the rag, and rub the watery homemade shampoo through my hair, fingers scratching into my scalp until the water runs clear. I spend a few vain moments under the water, wishing the pressure or heat was sufficient to get some of my upper back muscles to unwind a little, but the thought and meager effort are impotent in their futility.

Mostly, I just use the time to brush my teeth. It's the one bit of hygiene I haven't allowed to go by the wayside this week because I'm _really_ not interested in finding out what wasteland dentistry is like.

Rolling my shoulders, I turn the water off, snagging a largely threadbare towel from the rack and stepping out after wrapping myself in it securely. I shake my head violently to liberate my short hair of most of the water dripping from it, then push the fogged, rounded glass bathroom door open. I toss a smirk to Charon, where he stands with his back against the lift doors, arms crossed, trying to intimidate me and failing miserably.

"Has that _ever_ worked on me?" I remind him, with a gentle smile, then toss a nod toward the bathroom. "It's all yours. I promise I won't try to escape while you're in there." I snag the desk chair and drag it into the middle of the room, facing him, and sit in it. "Before you go in, I have a couple things I'd like to discuss."

He tilts his head at me, arching a brow in question.

I tick off one finger. "One, your preferences for sleeping. Personally, I'm fine sharing the bed," I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at said bed, "there's room for _five_ of you, so we shouldn't have any crowding issues." I shrug. "It's up to you. But I'm not sending you off to the Rexford in your exhausted state, and you're sure as hell not sleeping on the damn floor when there's a perfectly serviceable bed around." I level a disapproving glare at him. "I'd rather take the damn floor _myself_ if you're gonna try to pull that shit again."

He'd tried to do that, _once_. Once was _enough_.

I continue without pausing for more than a breath, "Or we can do this in shifts if it freaks you out too much. One way or another, you're gonna sleep, today, however it happens."

I tick off the second finger. "Two, what's been bothering you for the past few days, other than the whole sleep thing?" I wave my hand around vaguely, the motion drawn out and lazy, that hand coming up to support my cheek as I rest it on it, the elbow planting itself on the armrest as I watch him, waiting as he deliberates with himself.

After a bit of mulling, he finally deigns to respond, "The bed will serve well enough. As to my considerations over the last few days, I have been... pondering your last query to me. It seemed my answer was inadequate, so I sought to find a more satisfactory answer."

I frown slightly, confusion clouding my tired mind. "What query was that?"

"You asked me what I wanted."

Both my brows rocket up in surprise; I'd honestly almost forgotten about that whole thing. "And have you come to any conclusions?"

He hesitates, and I regret even asking the question when I see him wince in a pain that I recognize quite intimately as that god damned pain response that those god damn scientists programmed his goddamn brain with. And it's just getting _worse_ because he obviously _doesn't have an answer to give_.

I hold my hands up in surrender. "Enough! I didn't ask to bring you pain, it's alright, you don't have to answer, Charon."

Usually, that stops it.

It doesn't, this time.

Oh, _god_ , it _doesn't_.

He grits out the words through a teeth-clenching grimace of pain, "I _want_ to answer."

I stand from the chair, one uplifted hand already reaching for him as if it could close the distance on its own power. "Charon, it's okay, you don't have to answer if you don't have an answer to give. It's alright, you don't have to push yourself." I take a step closer when I see his condition isn't improving. "Charon, _please_. I can't imagine how much pain you're in, but it's hurting _me_ to see you like this."

I take the final requisite step to reach him as he actually falls to one knee, his breaths coming in short gasps as he bears whatever agonies he's enduring in a silence no doubt graced him by his _training_ , my fingers gently settling on either side of his head, gingerly cupping his upturned face. "Please, _stop torturing yourself_. It's not worth it."

Suddenly, the cloud of pain in his eyes clears, and one hand reaches up to settle firmly on my upper arm. "It is if it is _my choice_. That is what your question was about, yes? What I _chose_ to wish for?"

I can tell he's still struggling under the strain of physical anguish, but his mind has reached a moment of clarity he must have been seeking for some time. I see what looks like a revelation in his eyes and I nod softly. "Yeah, that was a part of it, definitely." I lean down the scant inch or so it takes to come almost face-to-face with him because I want to make sure he hears me, gets my point. "But I _didn't_ want you to have to suffer excruciating pain just to figure that part of it out."

Maddeningly, he picks _now_ of all times to give me a full, genuine smile, followed by a somewhat sardonic huff of a laugh. "Perhaps not. But it is still..." he grunts, eyes clenching closed and forcibly re-opening, again hissing the words through bared teeth, " _my choice_."

I give him a tight, pained smile, nodding once and swallowing as I stroke a thumb along his cheek, trying to soften the pain. "Yeah, it is, Charon. But please, I _beg you_ , stop torturing yourself. I can't do anything to help what you do to yourself, and it's killing me to see you in pain that I can't soothe."

His eyes lock with mine, that damnable smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like a specter trapped in a shadow. "It's more than the contract for you, isn't it?"

A chill slides through me, surprise and the licking flame of truth chasing it through my system. I realize he's right. It had been more, from the second we first met. Some strange kind of... kinship. What eventually evolved into this weird... synergic kind of thing we have now. Slowly, I nod. "Yeah. It always was, I think. Ever since that moment I stared at you like a complete idiot at the door of the Rail." I chuckle, running a hand fondly over the choppy tongues of flame red hair on his head, hand coming back to rest on his jaw, to match its sister on the other side. "You're a force of nature, Charon. Easy to see what had my feet glued to the floor just then."

He huffs a tight laugh, eyes sliding closed to choke down the pain, then opening again, tiredly, to look back up at me. "You sure it wasn't the layer of filth on the floor up there?"

That shocks a laugh out of me, and I move up to plant a kiss on his brow, then straighten and draw him to me gently in a comforting embrace, stroking his head where it rests with his ear just above my heart, tall even on his knees. "I'm sure it didn't hurt, but that definitely wasn't all of it."

The hand on my arm falls to my back, the other delinquently following, both wrapping around me like the roots of a tree taking hold; firm, warm, solid. His voice sounds more steady when he quietly murmurs, "No, it wasn't."

A peaceful quiet follows as we hold each other together, his breaths slowly evening out and his strained trembling calming to something next to normal.

It isn't until many long minutes pass, when his breathing sinks into something soft and slow, his arms squeezing me to him possessively, that I realize he's fallen asleep.

I almost don't have the heart to wake him, but the combination of his ghoulish smell and the fact—which really only strikes me _now_ , now that all the shocking developments have passed—that I'm only dressed in a threadbare—if still whole— _towel_ has me trying to gently separate us so I can bend down to shake him awake.

Well, that was the _plan_ , anyway. But his arms really are solid and tight as tree roots, and he is _not_ letting go.

"Charon," I say, firmly, more than loudly enough for him to hear, especially this close. "Wake up."

A great squeeze of his arms follows, before he takes a deep breath, and nuzzles into my sternum with a soft, sleepy groan.

Honestly, there are few things I've seen more adorable than this sight, right now. It makes me grin, and I trail my fingers gently along his scalp in fond comfort. "C'mon, Charon. You need a shower."

He grumbles something incoherent in response, arms once again snugging me to him.

I can't help it. I start shaking with giggles.

Naturally this causes him some disquiet, which he grumbles at again, finally lifting his head from my trunk and blinking blearily at it, then turning his gaze to me, then back down to where his head had been resting with a slightly surprised, then disgruntled look, when he realizes it's still tensed and quivering with laughter.

I lean down and press another kiss to his brow, resting mine against his and leveling out my laughter with a soft sigh. "While I'm glad you find me comfortable enough to sleep against, you need a shower, Charon. And I need to put something besides a damp towel on."

He looks at me, though he has to cross his eyes a bit to see me this closely, and it _almost_ sends me off into another bout of laughter. I maintain my composure, _just._ He heaves a deep, long sigh, closing his eyes in a moment of peaceful quiet.

I smirk and nudge him to remind him gently, "No sleeping yet. Shower first."

A soft growl is his only response, though he does suck in another heavy breath as if trying to fill his body with oxygen in preparation to move. After a moment, he slowly leans back, eyes flitting over my features in a lax search. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, as following a yawn he utterly fails to stifle, he gingerly releases me from his grip and struggles stiffly up from what have to be sore knees.

I offer him a hand up, but he refuses it like the stubborn mule of a man he is, using the wall as an aide instead because that's somehow safer for his dignity than accepting my more than capable help. I snort and send an unimpressed look his way, which he simply shrugs off. I shake my head and reach up to pat his cheek with a long-suffering smirk on my lips. "Stubborn. Shower. Go."

He simpers at me and to my utter shock, lifts his own hand to cup my cheek, then bends down and plants his weathered lips on my brow. "As you wish, Mistress," he says, murmuring the words into my skin, the whispers of his breath fanning against the fine tendrils at the edge of my hairline, the feeling tripping off every goddamn goosebump on my body. I swallow as he turns away with a fond, sleepy smile, heading into the bathroom as if he hadn't just dropped the bombs all over again, right in the middle of my apartment.

I... but wait, I'd... I'd done it first, hadn't I? Had he reacted the same way, and I hadn't noticed? Or am I just... utterly overreacting?

I must be. I _have_ to be.

This is _Charon_. He's...

What? He's _what?_

A contracted slave? Is that really all he is, now?

I sling the towel from me and drape it over the laundry line by the left wall, then reach for my dresser drawers, pulling out my usual bedclothes—a thin shirt, underwear, and a pair of boxer shorts over them; though the latter is more to cover up a bit better for Charon's sake, than because it's anything I usually wear to bed.

Or is he becoming something else?

Something new?

I tug the articles on, only paying enough attention to make sure I don't put anything on inside-out. I eye the bed, deciding to spring for the window-wall side of the bed, since Charon would likely prefer to be between me and the door anyway. He usually does.

Or is it me that's changing?

Adapting to having him next to me, like the limb I never knew I was missing?

I don't _feel_ all that different...

Well, other than... whatever _that_ was.

But that was just... _ridiculous_ , really.

I'm overreacting. I _must_ be.

I settle into the covers, burying the side of my face into the bunched up pillow beneath my head, utterly tangled in the arms I wrap haphazardly around it, for lack of one of my lovers to cling to. I hear the water turn off, and delayedly, the bathroom door open.

There's a quiet pause that lasts for some time, then the soft rustling of fabric against ragged skin at first, then itself. A quiet, roughened sigh sounds in the stillness.

Bare feet slap softly against the clean floor, approaching the bedside behind me.

The bedclothes slide and shift as they're folded over on themselves, making way for the giant who slips into my bed, dipping down his side of the bed nearly as much as Nicky does.

"Mistress."

I twist my torso until my upper back lays flat on the bed, turning my head to look back at him with a brow lifted in query.

"To quote you: I don't bite, unless you ask me to. Please relax."

I blink and swallow. "Uh. Right. Sure." I roll back to my original position and curl in on myself. "Sorry."

Apparently, that's not good enough. I hear a sigh, followed by, "Have you changed your mind, Mistress? Would you rather I found another place to sleep?"

I jerk back to looking at him again, alarmed, reaching out without thinking, hand sliding over his cheek to offer solace. "No! No, I... don't mind me. I'm... not myself right now. I don't know what's... just... you can sleep right here, it's alright."

He frowns, clearly unsatisfied with the state of affairs. Or at least, with my response. "What is wrong?"

Shit.

Lying to him, as appealing as it is right now, won't work. He can read me every bit as well as I can read him. He'd know.

Instead, I draw my hand back beneath my pillow and begin to deflect.

"I..." I hesitate for effect, a frown of concern creasing the space between my eyebrows, "I'm not really sure, yet. I need to think about it. Too tired to really go over it properly right now."

He narrows his eyes at me, and I can tell he doesn't like that answer, either, but lacks the energy to get into it right now. He sighs and rolls onto his back, closing his eyes without further comment.

I turn back to the discolored glass of the window-wall, reaching out a finger to trace along the lead grout pattern running through it. The simple repetitive motion is calming, centering; and I'm nearly asleep when abruptly, the cover and sheet are yanked and rumpled all at once, and the middle of the bed dips drastically, just as the rooting branch of a ghoulified arm steels itself around my waist and _tugs_.

Despite my surprised noise of indignant protest, I am nearly immediately wedged beneath the chin of my largest ghoul pack member, back flush against his front, the arm wrapped around my middle indicating with perfect clarity his disinterest in any argument on my part.

I try to look up at him, to get a read on him, but halt when I realize two things. The first, that from this angle, getting a good look at his face is impossible. The second, that he is... _shivering_. And his skin is cold.

 _Oh._

Well, that simplifies things.

...Somewhat.

I have to ask. "Charon?"

His response is muffled, but alert enough that it's clear he's awake, "Yes, Mistress?"

"You alright?"

He sighs softly. "I am c-cold, Mistress."

I nod, much as I can, being wedged into place as I am. "I know."

By inches, I allow myself relax into his hold, letting my warm beach spread to more of his frozen tundra, idly wondering if all ghouls get this cold after a shower. Finally, I drape my arm over his, and snug back into him fully, pressing against him to provide the most warmth that I can, fully relaxing and settling in to sleep right here.

May as well.

Cold and my own awkwardness aside, I feel... well, _safe,_ like this.

And if he doesn't mind the weird little smoothskin who holds his whole life in her hands sharing his sleep and being his space heater, then who am I to argue?

I can live with this.

The realization of how _easily_ I can live with this cards itself into my fading thoughts, as I drift to sleep in his arms—the most secure I've likely _ever_ been—and I find I can live with that, too.


	20. Chapter 20

Tap-tap-tap-tap— _schik_!

There's a calming rhythm created by the gentle tapping, which is a balm to his wounded soul, creating order in a life he—even now—has less control over than any other being on Earth.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap— _schik_!

Many tiny threads of metal that coil from the trigger housing under his careful tooling fall to the floor with hardly a sound, even to his hearing.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap— _schik_!

The soft grinding of grit in the turntable vice adds a deeper bass undertone to the regular beat of his chasing hammer, as he turns the piece for the proper angle.

Tap-tap-tap— **grind** _—_ tap-tap— _schik_!

It's a project he's been working on for the past two weeks, whenever his Mistress sleeps—now that sleeping is once again a thing she does regularly, partly at his insistence—and it brings him more satisfaction than anything he's done in quite some time.

Tap— **grind** _—_ tap-tap-tap— **grind** _—_ tap-tap— _schik_!

He recalls as he brings hammer to chisel, the last time he'd worked on a piece like this; the last time he'd presented anyone with a genuine gift of any sort.

 _Lynn looks up from her worktable, lifting the welding mask from her face to reveal the smile she always wore for him, like a badge of pride. "What's up Char-bear?" she asks before her sight drifts down to the object he carefully holds out to her. The smile drops, in favor of an awed sort of confusion, her eyes ripping their attention from the item, back up to his eyes. "What's this then? Y'find a pretty?"_

 _He shakes his head. "No. I made this. For you. You have long complained about your lack of a flask." He nudges it toward her pointedly. "I am remedying the situation."_

 _Her eyes grow round as dinner plates in a blend of shock and concern, peering down at the—admittedly ornate—flask, then back up at him. She very gently rests her hand on his outstretched wrist, the pressure of her squeeze light, not the least bit restraining. "Charon, I—"_

 _He cuts off what very much sounds like a typical Lynn response—thinking the gift too extravagant for someone so simple as her—by placing the flask in the open hand on her lap. "It is yours. I made it for you. It can belong to no other unless you yourself give it to them. If you do not like it, then do not use it." He shrugs, rebuffing her immediate objections and turning, going up to his room. He'd done what he set out to do, there was no need to remain here and listen to her denying her worthiness._

 _He wouldn't have made it if he hadn't considered her worthy of it._

 _The next time they traveled, when they settled down around a low fire to cook dinner, she drew his gift from her vest, and tipped the mouth at him, then took a smiling, grateful swig, before offering him one._

 _He grudgingly accepted one, before returning the flask to her and continuing to stir the insta-mash._

Tap— **grind** _—_ tap-tap-tap— **grind** _—_ tap-tap _-_ tap-tap-tap— _schik_!

It'd taken an hour or so—when he initially started back up—to fall back into the rhythm of this particular art once again, after the years he'd gone not practicing, but engraving again is like a warm gun, like pockets full of ammo, like a full belly and plenty of rest. It's a comfort he'd all but forgotten—one he's glad to return to. It's also a quiet enough art that he can easily go about creating pieces in secret, as the town slumbers.

Tap-tap-tap— **grind** _—_ tap-tap-tap— _schik_!

A rumbling startles him from the quiet tempo—the elevator beside him admitting one of his Mistress' apartment's occupants out into the streets. He hurriedly clears the workstation, putting his tools away and slipping the housing into a pouch. The soft lighting in the lift's cabin informs him of its contents the moment the doors slide open.

* * *

I can't sleep.

I'd been having trouble with it for weeks, really, but I didn't want to worry anyone—John always fusses over me, almost as much as Charon, bless him. Nicky often forgets a lot of things that being human entailed, so he's usually the last one to harp on me about it, but he still does, if he notices.

Which... well.

He hasn't exactly allowed himself back into my apartment since the whole 'Kellogg possession incident', as we've come to call it, so how could he possibly know I've not been sleeping well?

Besides, compared to the Kellogg issue, what's a little bit of lost sleep?

We'd managed to inform John about the situation a week ago. He'd taken it about as well as could be expected, seeming just as disturbed and worried over it as I am.

There're some nights when I wake and catch him watching the empty side of the bed with a far-off expression, his fingers drawing patterns on the canvas of my skin.

He never says anything, but I can tell Nicky's absence bothers him in some way.

I haven't asked him about it. This entire relationship hangs from the threads of our hearts in a delicate balance as it is; I don't want to rock the boat unless it turns out I need to.

Tonight, he's sleeping better than usual; deeply enough that I had no problem slipping out of bed and dressing to pop down for a visit with Charon.

Things have been... odd, since the night we'd both passed out together in my bed, Charon shivering and suckering himself to my back like an octopus. A... cold... octopus. _Okay, maybe that's a bad analogy_. _He didn't actually sucker himself to my back, he was just... very_ _ **close**_.

Anyway, that isn't even the issue, really. A cold ghoul is a cold ghoul. I don't have a problem warming one up, whether it's John or Charon or Daisy or Gob or Mozzy or any other _sentient_ ghoul out there. It's first aid, simple as that.

The issue is in what happened the following morning, which still confuses the ever-loving shit out of me.

 _In waking, there are several similarities between this morning and many others I've experienced recently._

 _The extremely warm, clinging presence at my back, and the unavoidably stiff morning wood resting firmly in the cleft of my ass? That I'm used to. Hell, even the weight of the person holding me to him and slowly grinding his clothed erection against me isn't so odd. A little on the heavy side, but Nick is... well, 'heavy as hell' is a vast understatement._

 _Except, I realize, as my brain slowly surfaces from the lake of my sleeping consciousness, this is most decidedly not Nicky._

 _It doesn't feel like Nicky—even with the new skin, the padding between metal and skin is still different than human or ghoul; it's firmer, less giving. Not to mention that the skin against mine isn't at all velvety, it's more like a patchwork of soft kid leather mixed with something warm and almost... electric. Whatever it is, it sends a shiver racing up my spine that I'm not entirely sure what to think of._

 _It doesn't sound like Nicky, either—even the soft, muffled groans panting from above and slightly behind me are off, more along the lines of something John might utter, but nowhere near as smooth. A total lack of the sound of coolant pumping quickly through the body behind me solidifies this part of my realization._

 _I belatedly tack on the discovery, as my nose wakes up, that it also doesn't smell like Nicky—while the scent of cigarettes does linger faintly about the general vicinity of this individual, the most potent aroma is that of my personal soap, and... saliva?_

 _Finally, I blink awake at the unusual smell—even if John or I happen to drool, it's usually mostly absorbed by a pillow, or bed clothing of some sort, so that particular scent isn't typically very strong, but damn if it isn't here—only to realize with a distinctly less pleasant shiver that the crown of my head is... wet._

 _Something is gingerly tugging at a large patch of my hair, the clump of hair centered perfectly in the wet spot._

 _I'm about to wrench myself from the bed so I can take proper stock of the situation, when suddenly, the male behind me abruptly yanks his arms from around me, and promptly rolls right out of the bed, taking all of the covers with him. Some struggling moments later, punctuated by what must be painful—judging by the volume—smacking of elbows and other parts against the floor, he frees himself from the blanket burrito and sprints to the bathroom in a blur._

 _Seconds later, I hear the shower's pipes sputtering and groaning to life, a steady spraying sound following a few more thumps, and two low squeaks of skin twisting against the tile._

 _Blinking at the progression of events, I bring my hand to the wet spot on my head, ensuring that no, I'm not bleeding; and no, I wasn't being slowly eaten by a stray feral that somehow made it into my bed without anyone noticing. When I draw my hand back, I give it a sniff, and sure enough, that's spit._

" _The hell?" comes my voice, mussed with grogginess, asking the universe what in god's name this fresh fuckery is._

 _An explanation is needed, here._

Sadly, I haven't had a satisfactory answer yet, and shit only continued to get stranger and stranger that day.

* * *

John shifts as the sound of the elevator clanking to a rest at the bottom of the shaft wakes him. The arm he's not laying on automatically stretches out to the space Shana usually occupies, only to find a ghost of her warmth remaining on the sheets in her stead.

Gone for her nightly smoke and chat with Charon, then.

Well, nearly nightly, anyway.

He has to admit, it's become a rather frequent habit of hers, though he's far from suspecting anything untoward in it at this point.

And really, even if he were to, could anything she did really be considered untoward? The terms they'd negotiated for their little love triangle hadn't specified whether it was a _closed_ triangle or not, exactly. It hadn't even been implied one way or another.

Honestly, he's mostly of a like mind with Nicky concerning the situation. He knows she could get someone, anyone, in a heartbeat. That scar from her ex notwithstanding, there ain't a soul in the 'Wealth that'd turn her down. Hell, half of his own Watch'd happily take a turn at her, if they weren't under the impression that he'd personally shank anyone who tried.

Not that he'd purposefully spread that rumor himself or anything. Nah, he's pretty sure that one got circulated all on its own power, and that suits him just fine.

Regardless, he trusts her to consult the other two-thirds of their triangular equation before making any changes or seeking outside... assistance. It was what she'd promised she'd do, if something like that ever came up, after all.

He rolls over and burrows into her pillow, drawing her scent deeply into his ruined nostrils and drifting off to sleep with a comforted sigh.

If there's one lesson of hers that he's learned quite thoroughly, it's that she _always_ keeps her promises.

* * *

His Mistress steps from the lift, her fingers already plucking two cigarettes from her pack, knowing he would be exactly where he is, and wanting a smoke by now.

Everything she has already done for him, and _still_ she persists, treating him as an equal at every possible turn; when he's done nothing to deserve or warrant such kindness, such fairness.

The sweetness on his tongue is long past overpowering, by now.

He accepts the lit coffin nail she hands him, her fingers incidentally brushing his before she retreats, the contact sparking his memory of the last time she'd touched him and he does everything he can to still the slight tremble it causes his fingers.

 _The dream had been hazy, up until he'd heard her voice._

" _What do you want, Charon?"_

 _Sluggishly, he'd made his way through the halls of his mind's eye, twisting and turning through corridors that make less sense than him hearing her voice in his dreams._

 _Had he ever heard another employer's voice in his dreams?_

" _What do you want?"_

 _In nightmares, perhaps._

 _This does not feel like a nightmare. But he's been deceived by that feeling before._

" _What do you want?"_

 _He follows her voice, regardless of where the dream might end up._

 _Another set of confusing hallways, none appearing in any way similar to the previous, greet him, then finally empty him out into a room that features a soft light emitting from no visible source. Beneath that light, he sees her, in all of her bared glory._

 _She lifts her head, cobalt eyes opening and finding his without delay, a soft smile curving her lips as she again plies, "What do you want, Charon?"_

 _Her hands spread gently from her sides, head tilting just so as her smile broadens knowingly._

 _It is an invitation his resting, unfettered mind would never willingly resist; not in a thousand years. He takes the two steps to her without thought, one arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her to him, the other cupping her jaw in its palm to angle her perfectly for his lips to come crashing down onto hers. The hungered growl he lets loose is immediately rewarded by a moan he doesn't have to imagine the sound of, because he's heard her several times before, quite clearly, through the open balcony door._

 _The sound both arouses a frenzy in him and begins to wake him, simultaneously shocking his lust into action, just as reality begins to assert itself on his mind._

 _He wakes to the furnace of her sleeping form held tightly in his arms, her back pressed to his front with absolutely no space between. His cock rests so agonizingly perfectly in the cleft of her cheeks that he nearly groans at the feeling until he realizes how utterly his sleeping mind had betrayed him._

 _What had been her sweet lips and lithe tongue in his dreams, turns out to be a fairly significant chunk of her hair in reality. Which he is now doing his very best to extricate from his mouth with desperate urgency._

 _Charon can feel her beginning to stir and stiffen with wakefulness, and he does the first thing that comes to mind in this situation: he escapes._

 _His conditioning immediately rejects the elevator and the balcony both, so he bolts for the only option left, seeking out the sole means in the room to cool his raging lust and shame in one._

 _She finds him huddled in the far corner of the shower against the wall, shivering under the cold spray, fingers digging crescents into whatever of the skin on his legs remains as he stares a horrified hole into the floor._

 _What had he done?_

 _The question replaces hers in the moment, repeating on an endless loop that nothing can silence._

 _What had he done?!_

" _Charon, what—" she cuts herself off as she really takes in the sight of him, her searching, quizzical gaze turning direly concerned in an instant._

 _Her feet near-instantly bring her to the side of the shower, hand extending out to allow the water to fall and pebble on its scarred but still relatively smooth surface._

 _Almost immediately, she yanks the offended appendage back with a hiss, then reaches around the downpour and turns the knob._

 _The pipes rattle and complain, but eventually begin to spit out warmer water._

 _She crouches down and pins him with a look, cautious worry clouding eyes so blue he could drown in their depths if he were to dare to look at them right now. Slowly, carefully, she lets her fingers drift toward the arm closest to her, both of his wrapped around the knees he's bent as close to his chest as he can manage. Those eyes of hers stay on him throughout, watching him for any sign that he might reject the contact._

 _He gives none._

 _Her fingers rest lightly on his forearm, just past his elbow, but he refuses to flinch, even when the contact feels like a fire in his gut—as though she is flame and he is kindling._

 _Gradually, her fingers make their way up to his cheek; their feathered pressure there asking instead of demanding, hoping instead of commanding._

 _He gives in to their gentle request._

 _His eyes meet hers—and he does drown in them, just as he knew he would, but it is not the tumbling freefall into a deep, watery chasm he'd imagined; rather it is a short tumble, a soft landing, an offer of comfort, none of the chastisement he expects—through the weak spray separating them, her fingers steady on his trembling cheek._

 _She doesn't speak—she seems to recognize that words from either of them would be too much in this moment. Instead, she makes the most improbable move of all, stunning him out of some portion of his shamed retreat._

 _She takes a deep breath, then steps into the shower, under the water raining down on both of them now, quickly lowering herself to his side and drawing her arm over his shoulder, resting the side of her head on the opposite one._

 _There is nothing threatening about the gesture—if anything, she has made herself exceedingly vulnerable with it—there is nothing that demands his response or any action at all. It is so purely platonic that it actually helps him tame his pounding heartbeat to something more reasonable._

 _Eventually, he loosens the arm closest to her from its grip around his legs, settling it around her waist instead. She reciprocates by stroking the back of his head soothingly._

 _Once again, she has come to his rescue, in a moment of need. Though he is certain she must have some inkling of what brought him in here since she could not have missed his mauling of her hair, she has put it aside to bring him... solace._

 _Him!_

 _He, who had dishonored the trust she'd shown him in allowing him into her bed, who'd all but molested her in her sleep!_

 _She should be punishing him, not easing his discomfort._

 _Any employer before Lynn would've had him ground beneath the heel of their boot right now, squashed like a bug by the weight of his own contract's edicts. Even Lynn would've taken issue with his behavior._

 _But not… not her._

 _Not Shana._

 _It is in this moment that he realizes exactly how undeserving of such a Mistress he is._

By the time he truly surfaces from the memory, they're quietly finishing their cigarettes, not a word having passed between them.

She's again watching him with keen, speculative eyes, though what she seeks isn't any clearer now than it ever has been. She rolls the cherry from her spent butt, then reaches for another from her pack, tipping it toward him in offering.

He eyes her for a moment, noting the flare of stubbornness that has been persistently setting down roots in her stance ever since she exited the elevator, and nods his assent.

She lifts two filters to her lips, but before she can reach for her own lighter, he brings his own up—it's dented, battered, scratched and the zippo logo has long since been rubbed away, after two-hundred years of constant use, but thanks to his careful maintenance, it still works—offering the flame freely, his eyes steady on hers. She arches a brow, eying him past the flame, but tilts her head forward and accepts the spark with two careful draws through the cotton ends.

She again hands him a lit cigarette, even as she seems to settle in more firmly to wait, for whatever event she believes she will witness.

Bracing herself in the doorway that spills into the alley, she leans against the door jamb with arms loosely crossed; the picture of lax repose. She lifts her fag and pulls from the filter, smoke curling over her features, haloing her silhouette in the light of the burn barrel just outside. She finally releases him from her sight, turning her eyes instead to what little of the sky she can see between buildings, letting the plume of smoke gust from between her lips as she turns her face up to the moon.

The light reflects dully in her eyes when she casts her stare back down to her feet, reminding him of a wolf in a carnival who looks up through the bars of her cage at the full moon and dreams of freer times. He shakes the image and refocuses, only to find her gaze upon him again.

He sighs, gesturing to her vaguely with his cancer stick. "You did not answer me, before."

Shana arches a brow at him, though whether she means to convey surprise or confusion is less than evident, as both seem to be equally prevalent in her mind's eye.

"When I asked about you watching me," he clarifies.

Her expression clears and she returns to staring at her feet, drawing another cloud of smoke into her lungs as she contemplates.

It seems, after a time, that she will not answer—but then all at once, she does, shrugging the shoulder nearest him. "Think I'm still trying to figure you out a little. Plus you're…" she hesitates, her view shifting to somewhere near his kneecaps, "you're pretty stunning to watch, in general."

Huffing a somehow appreciative laugh, she indicates him with her unoccupied hand, encompassing him in one swift vertical motion. "I mean _look_ at you. You're incredible, even just standin' there, let alone when you're out helpin' make the Commonwealth a better place. I guess... guess I just started starin' at you that first night we met and never really stopped." She drags her eyes up his form, a soft smirk toying at the corner of her mouth, then falling with her sight, as she affixes it to the door frame.

"Not really sure how else to explain it," she concludes, rolling her cherry from the butt and tossing it in the burn barrel.

He cannot help his internal surprise at her answer. It is the most honest, unfiltered answer he thinks she has ever given him. Not to mention that he's _fairly_ certain she meant to compliment his appearance in some way, though how isn't entirely clear.

"That answer will suffice, for now." It's an olive branch, but one he feels comfortable extending.

One he could easily retract if the need arose.

She nods and sucks in a breath as she shoves away from her perch, turning toward the lift and taking a few quiet steps. He almost expects her to pause, to say something, to shatter the peace of the moment, but she only turns once she's inside the cabin, offering him a small, weary smile.

"Goodnight, Charon. Sleep sometime before dawn, will you?"

He cocks his head curiously at the query. "You are not ordering me to?"

Her expression turns pensive as she holds the elevator doors open, shaking her head after a few long seconds. "No. I don't want to order you to do anything you don't want to. Honestly, Charon, unless we're… I don't know… in combat or something, just… do whatever you want. Try not to screw the pack over, but otherwise, do what you want. That's…" she considers, eyes turning down to somewhere near his feet, then back up to his own eyes, "that's an order."

He very nearly chokes on his tongue.

Charon braces his hand against the wall beside him, suddenly almost deliriously dizzy, even as he fights to keep staring at her in shock. His conditioning had been… exceedingly thorough, but there were things even the men who created him could not have anticipated; namely, that anyone who owned the contract of such a creature as he could ever be so careless, or so kind, as to grant him the only type of freedom he could ever have.

He shakes his head sharply, rattling his brain a bit, but amazingly the dizziness does clear somewhat, enough that he can concentrate without risk of emptying his stomach.

He _has_ to ask.

"You… wish to grant me free will, within the confines of my contract? That is… it is what you meant?"

His Mistress gives him a sleepy smile, dipping her head once. "S'what I wanted to give you from the start. Just wanted to make sure you'd fit into the pack first. But I think you'll do just fine. Meant what I said when I got your contract. You only follow me as long as you want to. There's room at the lead with me if you feel up to the challenge at some point. Just think about it, Charon. Figure out what you want and let me know. I'll be here."

Her smile softens and rounds into a yawn just as her fingers slide from holding the door back, pressing them instead to the elevator control's buttons.

Charon is left alone, with new orders searing a warpath through his consciousness.

* * *

Despite my mid-night sojourn with Charon last night, I'm still awake before John is.

Giving Charon what little leeway I could find to grant him last night has me... well, _excited_ , really. I'm curious to see what he'll do with his newfound quasi-freedom.

Whether it will change him at all.

In the meantime, there's a holotape burning a hole in my proverbial pocket.

Before we'd gone to bed, when we were still up in the State House, I'd plucked the thing from John's table, as we lounged together on our evening off. He'd waved it off, asking me to listen to it later, as he was in the middle of trying to get me to try jet for once. Apparently, he thought it could have useful combat applications, just like psycho does. When I explained to him how Nate had come back from the war, that sobered him a bit, but he still insisted jet could be useful and 'you can keep your brain from droolin' outta your head', unlike with psycho, if used in moderation. I'd eventually—hesitantly—conceded his point, but insisted on trying it later.

He'll probably try to get me with it again once he wakes up, but for now, I have time to sit and listen. I've been noticing these little tapes all around town for months now, but I'd never bothered to pick one of them up; always too busy with something or rather.

I tug my pip-boy from the bed stand and let it sink its claws into me, wincing at the now-familiar but still unsettling feeling. Hitting the eject button and sliding the tape into place, I stand and begin my morning stretches as I listen.

The voice that speaks from the tape is surprisingly female, her tone confident and calm.

"Wake up Commonwealth. Synths are not your enemy..."


End file.
